There's Always Tomorrow
by Flaming Trails
Summary: After crashing into the Old West, Doc, Marty, and Jennifer face a tough problem - how do they fit in while fixing the DeLorean and keeping Doc's "kids" a secret? And what happens when an additional complication nearly falls into the local ravine? Third in the OckDocumentary.
1. A Long Hot Walk

**There's Always Tomorrow**

A BTTF/Spider-Man Idea Crossover

By Flaming Trails

Chapter 1

Saturday, July 4th, 1885

Hill Valley

7:24 A.M.

"Eungh. . . ."

Doc squinted into the sunlight as consciousness gradually returned. Great Scott, his back and neck were _stiff_! Well, his back was always rather stiff, but this was worse than usual. He massaged his neck as he looked around, his groggy mind trying to process why he was sleeping in the DeLorean in the middle of nowhere instead of in his own bed.

_**Because we crash-landed in 1885 when the DeLorean was struck by lightning last night. Remember?**_

Doc groaned as it all came back to him. _So it wasn't all a dream._

_**Nope,**_ said Albert matter-of-factly, as if he'd been taking lessons from Jules. _**No matter how much we want it to be.**_

Doc sighed deeply. Waking up stranded 100 years in the past – well, it was no way to wake up at all. _Oh well,_ he thought, stretching a little, _nothing we can do except try to make the best of things._

He looked to the side. Marty and Jennifer were curled up in the passenger seat together, still sound asleep. Doc snorted in amusement as he noticed that Marty was using Jennifer's chest for a pillow. _That's not very polite, is it?_

_**Should we wake them?**_ Verne asked.

_Let them sleep for a moment. We've got a long day ahead of us. A lot of long days ahead of us._ Rolling his shoulders to try and banish the last of the kinks, Doc pulled himself out of the car and scanned their surroundings.

It was about the same as he'd seen last night, just in greater detail thanks to the rising sun. Sand stretched in all directions, rising and falling with the landscape. Scraggly grass and stunted trees dotted the empty expanse. There was no sign of civilization at all. _Which is probably a good thing,_ Doc allowed. _If we'd crashed into a populated area, we would have set off a mass panic. _He grimaced as he recalled Marty's story of Farmer Peabody shooting at him, thinking he was an alien, when he first arrived in 1955. Would they have gotten a similar reaction from an 1885 farmer?

In fact, they were still in danger of that kind of reaction, weren't they? Just thinking about the sort of problems Marty had had adapting to the culture a mere thirty years back highlighted just how much trouble they were going to have with one more than seventy years back. None of them had temporally-appropriate (or weather-appropriate) clothing, and he was probably the only one with even a slight idea on the etiquette of the time period. They'd be dealing with unfamiliar slang, unfamiliar customs – Doc wasn't sure if Marty and Jennifer even knew how to ride a horse. Hell, he wasn't sure if _he_ could – he'd ridden in his youth, but right now that seemed further away in temporal distance than 1986. Not to mention there was his own rather unique condition to consider. How in the name of Sir Isaac H. Newton was he supposed to hide four mechanical arms from the rest of the world?

_**We successfully hid from people in 1955,**_ Tommy said encouragingly. _**We can do it again. Your coat's long enough.**_

_**Though it wasn't summer in 1955,**_ Jules noted. _**We may have some issues with overheating.**_

_We'll just have to deal with them,_ Doc thought, gazing out at the horizon. _The last thing we want to do is cause some sort of panic-fueled incident in the past that affects the future. I've had enough of things happening to the timeline._ The tentacles nodded agreement.

A groan from the car alerted the scientist to Marty's awakening. He turned to see the teen lift his head, blink, look around, then scowl. "Shit."

Well, that summed it up pretty well, didn't it? "Exactly," Doc nodded. "How are you feeling?"

"Kinda sore," Marty admitted, twisting his head to one side. "Why'd you make us sleep in the car again?"

"One word: rattlesnakes."

The teen paled. "Oh. Yeah." He sat up a little straighter, trying not to disturb his girlfriend. "So, what's the plan, Doc? Where do we go from here?"

"Much as I hate to, we're going to have to go into town," Doc said. "We can't do much sitting out here, and if I'm going to fix the DeLorean, I'll need tools."

Marty nodded, then bit his lip. "How long do you think that's gonna take?"

"Fixing the car, you mean?" Marty nodded again. "I'm not sure. Depends on how much I can cobble together out of the hoverboard. But we're looking at a couple of months at the least."

Marty groaned loudly. "Damn. . .and I thought being stuck in the _fifties_ for a _week_ was bad. 1885 – that's as backward as you can get!"

"Not really," Doc said as the tentacles chirped. "We could have been sent back to before this area was colonized. I doubt the local Indian tribes would have taken us dropping in very well."

"Still! No rock music, no cars, no electricity. . . ." Marty's eyes widened in sudden horror. "Jesus Christ, Doc, do they even have indoor plumbing out here yet?"

"Er–" Doc glanced off to the side. How the hell did he tell this poor kid that no, he was pretty certain they didn't? It wasn't a comforting thought in the slightest. "We'll make do," he finally non-answered. "Why don't you wake Jennifer, and we can have some breakfast."

"Do we even have anything left? We plowed through the rest of the snacks last night."

Verne snaked into the car and popped open the glove compartment. "We still have some crackers," Doc said as he pulled out the little package. "It'll take the edge off our hunger. We can have a real meal once we get into town." He shook his head. "Thank God I thought to get currency stretching back to the late 1700s for emergencies. Otherwise we'd be in real trouble."

"Like we're not already," Marty muttered, shaking Jennifer's shoulder.

_**I'm tired of everybody being so negative,**_ Tommy groused, chattering. _**We **_**did**_** just save the space-time continuum, you know! That's gotta count for something!**_

Doc smiled a little. "That's true enough. The problem is, that also doesn't improve our current situation."

"Huh?" Jennifer said thickly as Marty finally brought her around. "Whazzat?"

"Nothing. Tommy just trying to keep our spirits up."

"Oh." She yawned and sat up straight. "Well, unless he can think of a way to get us back home by tonight, my spirits are going to stay pretty low."

Marty sighed. "I just wish I had my Walkman or my guitar or something. I don't even want to think about the kind of music they have around now."

"Who cares about the _music_?" Jennifer said, giving her boyfriend a disbelieving look. "What are we supposed to do about food and shelter and – everything else?"

"Well, on the plus side of the equation, I _do_ have a good amount of time-appropriate money," Doc assured her. "Remember my briefcase? We should be able to buy clothes and keep ourselves fed for a while. After that, we'll have to play it by ear."

"You're the one who was in the history club," Marty added. "You gotta know a few things about living back here."

"I do, but my stupid brain keeps focusing on things like saloon girls and other less-than-savory ways of making a living."

Marty winced. "Okay, Jen, tell your brain that, no matter what, we're _not_ getting _that_ desperate."

"Definitely not," Doc said, the tentacles nodding vigorously. "There are some lines you just don't cross." He shaded his eyes, scanning the horizon for any likely caves. "Let's split the crackers, then we can see about hiding the DeLorean and finding Hill Valley's current location."

"Hiding the DeLorean?" Marty repeated as he and Jennifer slid out of the car. "Doc, we're in the middle of nowhere."

"That may be, but I'd rather not take the risk of anyone stumbling across it," Doc said as Verne popped open the bag and began allotting crackers to everyone.

"Nobody would know how to use it, though."

"No, but they might figure out how to disassemble it."

Both teens went white at that. "Yeah, let's hide it," Marty agreed hastily.

"I'd prefer to have it close – can't we sneak it into town?" Jennifer asked.

"Not in daylight. We could carry it closer to town and hide it nearby, though, for later retrieval." Doc glanced backward. "What do you think, boys?"

_**The DeLorean is within our lifting capabilities,**_ Jules said. _**Though that'll mean you, Marty, and Jennifer will have to walk – it'll take all four of us to carry the car.**_

"Well, that's the trade-off," Doc said, eating his crackers. "I don't think a little walking will kill us."

Jennifer scanned the horizon. "So, where do you think Hill Valley is? It has to be pretty small right now."

"Based on where the lightning hit us, we're in the general vicinity of the future Lyon Estates," Doc said. "Hill Valley should be east of us."

Marty looked east, chewing his lip. "It's gonna be one hell of a walk, Doc. Think you can carry the car that far?"

_**Technically, **_**we'll**_** be carrying the car,**_ Albert pointed out with a screek. _**And we don't exactly get tired.**_

"Albert says they'll be fine," Doc told his friend. "As for ourselves, we'll take frequent breaks. We don't want to overtax ourselves, especially given our clothing and the fact that we have–" Verne checked. "One bottle of fruit juice. Damn." He shook his head. "Once we get home, I'm packing this thing with a survival kit. If I keep it at all."

_**Let's not start that argument again,**_ Jules said quickly. _**We'd better get going before it gets too hot.**_

"Agreed. No time like the present. Let's pack it up and get moving, everyone."

Saturday, July 4th

11:43 A.M.

"Whew! I _really_ miss air conditioning now."

"You ain't kidding," Jennifer muttered, wiping the sweat off her face. "How much farther?"

"We've been walking pretty steadily – it can't be that much longer," Doc said, squinting at the horizon. "Granted, it's rather tough to estimate when you have no visible landmarks to go by."

"Yeah," Marty muttered. "At this rate the vultures are gonna get us first. Can we take a quick break?"

"All right." Doc remained standing as the teenagers collapsed against a convenient rock, panting. "What's the temperature, kids?"

_**85.7° Fahrenheit and climbing,**_ Jules reported.

_**How are you doing, Father?**_ Verne asked, sounding worried.

"All right, if hot and thirsty." Doc pulled at the collar of his shirt. "It's unfortunate that our warm weather clothes are currently behind a dumpster in 1955."

_**You couldn't walk into 1885 Hill Valley wearing clothes from 2015,**_ Albert pointed out. _**At least these are slightly more time-appropriate.**_

"True, but I'd be tempted to take the risk if it meant wearing something lighter."

_**Do you think our 2015 stuff will cause any problems if it's found in 1955?**_ Tommy asked.

"I hope not. I can't worry about that at the moment."

"What? What else is there to worry about?" Jennifer asked, glancing up at Doc with an expression that was equal parts frustration and fright.

"The boys are just inquiring about the 2015 clothing we left in the past – well, the more recent past."

"Oh. Screw that," Jennifer said, flapping a hand in the still air.

"Yeah, let's concentrate on getting back to 1986 first," Marty agreed. "That shit isn't hurting anything."

_**You don't know that,**_ Albert said, clacking his claw.

"Well, we can't do anything about it, so just drop it already!" Doc snapped, whipping his head around to glare at the tentacle.

Albert and his brothers started, chittering in surprise. Doc sighed, the anger going out of him. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "It's just – it seems every time I turn around, there's something else to worry about. How to get us home, how to survive in the meantime, how to avoid changing history or causing a paradox. . . ."

The tentacles set the DeLorean down and wound around him sympathetically. _**We're sorry, Father,**_ they chorused._** We didn't mean to cause you extra stress.**_

Doc gave them a smile. "It's okay, boys. I know you didn't mean to."

"I think the problem here is that we're all really hot and cranky," Jennifer said. "Boys, you can see farther than Doc, right? Can you scout us out some water?"

The tentacles nodded, rising high into the air to get a better look at their surroundings. Doc waited with his friends by the rock, crossing his fingers tightly.

Tommy suddenly squealed. _**Hey, I see something!**_

"What?" Doc asked, standing up straight.

_**A big bunch of trees that way,**_ Tommy said, indicating with a jab of his claw. _**They're kind of shrubby, but maybe we could hide the DeLorean in them?**_

"Maybe," Doc said, looking intrigued. "And where there's plant life, there's usually some water. Anything else?"

_**I think I see train tracks over there,**_ Jules reported, pointing in the opposite direction of Tommy. _**Those would lead us into town, right?**_

"They should. We'll go to the trees first, though, and see what's there. Come on, everyone."

It didn't take long for them to reach the clump of trees, luckily. Doc nodded approvingly at the growth. "Yes, this'll be perfect as a temporary hiding place for the DeLorean."

"Hey, look, there's a little stream!" Marty said, pointing out a thin trickle of water running through the grove. He and Jennifer immediately knelt down and splashed a bit on themselves.

"Be careful," Doc warned. "We don't know how clean it is."

"Doc, right now, I couldn't give less of a shit if I tried."

"You've got to be the hottest among us with that coat," Jennifer nodded. "I'm surprised you're not down on your hands and knees lapping this up like a dog."

"It's taking a great effort," Doc admitted, joining them and splashing his face. "Just remember, this water hasn't been run through any kind of purification process."

"Like I said, Doc, cannot give a shit."

After dousing themselves, they each drank a few mouthfuls, and Doc refilled the long-empty bottle of fruit juice. Once that was done, Doc and the tentacles concealed the DeLorean in the shrubbery. "All right, Jules, still see those train tracks?" he asked as they finished arranging the branches to hide any glints of silver from view.

Jules looked. _**Yup.**_

"Excellent. It should be safe to tentacle-travel for a little while now – hop aboard, you two!"

Marty and Jennifer eagerly clambered up. Once they were settled, the tentacles set off at a fast clip. Marty sighed, enjoying the breeze. "Only way to travel, Doc."

"Tell me about it," Doc grinned.

By tentacle, it took just a quarter of the time to reach the train tracks as it would have taken by foot. After a quick check for passing trains, the tentacles turned east along the line, toward where Hill Valley ought to be. After a good half-hour's travel, a building started coming into focus on the horizon. Marty squinted at it. "What do you think that is?"

"Probably the train station," Jennifer said. She smirked up at Doc. "Wonder what they'd say if we just charged into town like this?"

"I hate to think," Doc said with a shudder. "Set us down once we get a little closer, kids – we can't take the risk of you being seen."

_**Affirmative,**_ the tentacles chorused.

"I wonder what the town's gonna look like," Marty mused. "Is there just gonna be Main Street and that's about it?"

"Maybe not even that," Jennifer said. "I don't think Hill Valley even became a town until about 20, 30 years ago."

"I think it's about 20, but I can't recall the exact date off the top of my head," Doc confirmed. "The truly interesting part will be seeing if the clock tower's there. It should be in the first stages of construction around this time."

"What?! Really?"

"Yup. If I recall my history right, it gets finished sometime either next year or the year after."

Marty shook his head. "No clock tower. That just doesn't seem right, Doc."

"I know. Of course, we might have a stronger emotional connection to the building than most."

"The frame will be there," Jennifer said consolingly. "It won't be missing entirely."

"Yeah, but it won't be the same." Marty frowned. "This is weird. I mean, I guess I've already been through this once with 1955, but – this time, it's _really_ not going to feel like home, is it?"

Doc patted him on the back. "Probably not," he allowed. "But we just have to make the most of it. Just try and remember, no matter how odd it looks, it _is_ Hill Valley."

They traveled the rest of the way in silence, the tentacles setting them down about a half-mile away so they could walk into town normally. The train station, once they reached it, was quiet and empty, save for a few people lingering in the shade by the ticket offices. They gave the group a few puzzled looks, eying their clothes. _Sure you're hidden, kids?_ Doc thought, fighting down a surge of nervousness.

_**Don't worry, Father,**_ Jules said soothingly. _**We're retracted as far as possible. We won't let anyone see us.**_

_**And if they do, we'll knock them out and let them think they dreamed it,**_ Albert added.

_Let's try and _avoid_ that particular situation._

They hurried past the station and entered the town proper – what there was of it, anyway. Hill Valley in this time period couldn't be said to be more than a crude dirt street lined with equally-crude shopfronts. Marty whistled as he looked left and right, taking in the drooping wooden buildings. "Sheesh! We started off from _this_?"

"Most towns in California did," Doc shrugged.

Jennifer glanced at the local horse paddock, then did a double-take. "Holy shit! So Mr. Statler _wasn't_ lying."

"Huh?" Marty said, Doc mirroring the teen's confused look.

"When Dad got our last car from Statler Toyota, he and Mr. Statler started talking, and Mr. Statler told us his family had been in the transportation business for 100 years," Jennifer explained. "I thought he was full of it, but look!" She pointed to the sign, which read: "Honest Joe Statler – Fine Horses Sold, Bought & Traded."

"Whoa." Marty looked thoughtful. "Wonder if there's anyone else we know around here."

_**Uh-oh,**_ Albert said. _**That's another factor we didn't consider – the possibility of our ancestors having already settled in this location. The last thing we need is a repeat of the fiasco with Marty's parents.**_

Doc winced. _I know. Just one more thing to worry about._ "I hope you don't intend to seek out all your friend's ancestors," he said sternly. "Or your own, for that matter."

"Oh, no way, Doc," Marty said quickly. "I don't want to screw with anybody's history. I'm just curious. You ever notice that, once somebody moves into Hill Valley, they don't ever move out? I mean, J.J. told us his family's been here six generations when we saw him in the future."

"I know!" Jennifer agreed. "'Nice place to live,' indeed."

Doc chuckled briefly, then turned serious again. "We're going to have to be extra careful about interacting with anyone, then. Do either of you have relatives in this time period?"

"I don't think Dad's ancestors are here yet," Jennifer said. "Of course, Parker's a pretty common last name. . . ." She sighed. "And I never knew much about Mom's side."

Marty patted her shoulder. "Well, the Baines family definitely shouldn't be here yet – Mom told me her side of the family lived in San Francisco until 1903. There should be McFlys, though. Dad said I got my middle name from the very first one off the boat from Ireland – Seamus."

"I see," Doc nodded. "We'll keep a wary eye out, then."

"What about you?" Jennifer asked as they continued walking. "You're old enough to have your dad or your mom running around, right?"

"Yes," Doc admitted. "My paternal side we don't have to worry about, thankfully. The Browns didn't come over here until 1908 – and at that time, they were the Von Brauns. My father changed our name during the first World War." He glanced over at the butcher's. "We _could_ run into my mother's family, but it's not likely. I don't think they've moved here yet."

_**Awww – I wanna meet Grandma and Grandpa,**_ Tommy whined.

_**Tommy, you know that's impossible,**_ Albert replied. _**We could do something to hurt the space-time continuum.**_

_And there's plenty of other good reasons for me never to figure out a way to introduce you to my parents,_ Doc added. _My father in particular._

_**What's so bad about your father?**_ Verne asked.

Doc paused, then reluctantly pulled up a few memories of his father berating him for his interest in science, culminating in the explosive family dinner that had led to him being disowned. The tentacles were silent for a long moment. _**You're **_**sure**_** that's your father?**_ Tommy finally asked.

Doc couldn't help a smile. _**Tommy, some days, I've really hoped he wasn't.**_

"So, where do we go from here?" Marty asked, pulling Doc away from his internal conversation. "What exactly are we looking for?"

Doc considered the question. "The blacksmith," he decided. "He'd be the one with the most advanced tools. We'll have to make some sort of deal with him."

"Like what?" Jennifer asked, twisting her fingers. "Do we have enough money to pay him? Or would he expect us to help out around the shop? I don't know the first thing about shoeing horses."

"I doubt he'd make a woman do such work," Doc pointed out. "If we run out of money, I was thinking more in terms of running errands for him, or maybe helping deliver finished products."

"Sounds okay to me," Marty said. "So how do we find him?"

"He has to have a shop in town," Doc declared. "If we keep walking, we're sure to find it." He took the lead, the teens following in his wake.

Despite his bold statement, though, it didn't appear that there was any blacksmiths along the little dirt thoroughfare – the closest Doc could see was the cabinetmaker and undertaker. At the end of the road was a saloon, and a large wooden framework with a few bits of cement and brick around the bottom. With a jolt, Doc realized the rickety skeleton of a building was in fact the courthouse. "Well, I'll be. . . ."

_**Doesn't look so impressive these days,**_ Albert noted.

Marty whistled as he caught sight of it too. "Jesus. This is freaky."

"Watch the profanity – and the slang," Doc cautioned, spotting a passing couple giving Marty an odd, disapproving look.

"Sorry, this is just – wow."

Jennifer, however, was less interested in the clock tower and more interested in something else. "Hey, Doc, could that be our blacksmith?" she asked, nudging him and pointing out another, more dilapidated building standing nearby.

Doc turned to see. It was a large barn-like structure, with "Livery" painted in white letters over the front doors. He grinned and nodded. "It looks appropriate, and the process of elimination makes it our most likely candidate."

"Great," Marty said, promptly striding up to the big double doors and knocking. "Hello? Anybody home?"

There was no reply. Marty knocked again. "Excuse me! We kind of need to talk to you!"

Still nothing. Frowning, Marty looked back at Doc and Jennifer. "Guess he's not here."

"Great," Jennifer grumbled. "Now what?"

"We ask in the saloon," Doc said, pointing. "On a hot day like this, he's probably enjoying a cold drink. I know I could use one."

_**I wonder if it'll be anything like the ones in the movies,**_ Tommy said curiously.

_**Probably not,**_ Verne replied. _**The people who make those don't exactly have the benefits of time machines, after all. It'll be interesting to compare popular fictional history with actual history.**_

_Indeed. And speaking of fictional histories. . . ._ "Verne just made me have a thought," he said as Marty rejoined them. "We have to make up an appropriate backstory for ourselves. People are already going to be suspicious of us – might as well not make it worse."

"Should I break out Calvin Klein again?" Marty asked.

"I don't think you should use that particular alias, but it would probably be a good idea if we avoided our real names. Especially in your case."

Marty grinned. "Can I be Clint Eastwood then?"

Doc gave him a look. "I was hoping for somebody a little less famous."

"Come on, Doc, he's one of my favorite actors."

"Be that as it may, it's bound to cause a little confusion in the future. Not to mention it might be easier if we just changed our last names. I had enough trouble remembering to call you 'Calvin' back in 1955."

"Martin Eastwood, then!" Marty gave Doc his best puppy-dog eyes. "If I'm gonna be stuck back here, at least let me use a cool name."

Doc rolled his eyes. "All right, all right, if you insist. Teenagers. . . ."

"Hey, Doc, come on, it's the Old West! You aren't at all tempted to call yourself John Wayne or something?"

"I–" Doc felt a blush start up on his cheeks as he suddenly pictured himself in the traditional hat and chaps of the Western star. "Well. . . ."

_**It'll be fun, Father!**_ Tommy encouraged him. _**And nobody should notice. It's not like anyone's heard of them back here.**_

_**He has a point,**_ Jules admitted. _**The likelihood of anyone in the future noticing and getting suspicious is virtually nil, especially when you factor in we're using our real first names and our major goal is to stay out of the history books in the first place.**_

Marty smirked at him. "Anybody else agree me?"

"All right, you've convinced me," Doc said with an embarrassed grin. "Martin Eastwood and Emmett Wayne."

Marty snickered and turned to his girlfriend. "What about you, Jennifer?"

"Uh – Jennifer Streisand?" The boys blinked at her. "I don't watch Westerns!"

"It'll do," Doc chuckled. "All right, that takes care of our aliases – now what about our circumstances. . . ." He looked at Marty. "I suppose I could pose as your uncle again."

"Works for me," Marty nodded.

"What about me? I don't want to have to pretend to be his sister," Jennifer said, screwing up her face in disgust.

"No, I wouldn't force that on you. We'll say you're his fiancee instead."

Jennifer's eyes widened. "Fiancee?" she repeated, sounding rather stunned.

"Uh, why can't we just stick with girlfriend?" Marty asked, pale with shock.

"Because we're all going to be living together – saying you two are engaged to be married should hopefully decrease the number of dirty looks you get. The moral guardians and gossips are probably going to have a field day regardless, but. . . ." He gave them an encouraging smile. "It shouldn't be too much of a stretch, right? According to every future I've seen, you two do end up marrying."

"Yeah, but – it still feels weird when you're only 17."

Doc patted them both on the shoulder. "Just do your best."

_**So, we're a man, his nephew, and his nephew's fiancee,**_ Jules said. _**Why are we in Hill Valley?**_

_**With no possessions, little money, and not-quite-era-appropriate clothes?**_ Albert added.

Doc looked down at his coat. "For the fashions – maybe we can claim we've been in the East for a while?"

Jennifer raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that'll actually fly? I mean, I know the East Coast is almost another country right now thanks to travel being so slow, but I don't think anyone here is that stupid."

"Maybe we can claim we're from the circus," Marty said with a shit-eating grin.

Jennifer rolled her eyes – but Doc looked intrigued. "Actually. . . ."

"What? I was joking, Doc!"

"I know, but such a backstory might be very helpful. We wouldn't have to make up a previous fixed address, we wouldn't have to explain our clothes beyond them being costumes – and some sort of caravan accident would be very hard to confirm or deny!" He nodded once decisively. "We're former circus folk who decided to strike out on our own, and who lost our caravan full of possessions after – a bandit attack. That sound plausible?"

Marty and Jennifer nodded. "Sounds okay to me, Doc," Marty said.

"Me too," Jennifer confirmed.

"Good, that takes care of everything important. Let's track down our blacksmith." With a slight swirl of his coat, Doc led the way into the saloon.


	2. The Palace Saloon

Chapter 2

Saturday, July 4th

12:27 P.M.

To Doc's surprise, the inside of the saloon actually _did _resemble those he'd seen in films growing up. Most everything was made of a dingy, dirt-blackened wood, with the bar and tables sporting their fair share of nicks, scratches, and stains. The ceiling sported a fancy chandelier, and the shelves behind the bar featured a selection of curious, somewhat dusty bottles. Sitting beside many of the chairs were tarnished spittoons, the floor around them dyed an ugly shade of brown from years of misses and near-misses. Jennifer wrinkled her nose at them. "Eww."

_**Someone's watching us,**_ Albert reported, and Doc looked up to the second level to see a couple of saloon girls peering down at them. The women were dressed for work, in skimpy (for the time) dresses and lots of make-up. Not that there were many customers – at this time of day, the bar seemed largely empty except for a couple of older men for whom physical pleasure was probably no longer that much of a priority. As a result, most of the attention of the girls was focused on Marty and Jennifer, with a few bored glances thrown Doc's way. Marty felt the eyes and glanced upward, to be assailed with overly-cheerful grins and a few friendly waves. Jennifer narrowed her eyes and pulled him closer, earning herself some catty glares. "Easy, Jennifer," Doc heard Marty murmur. "I ain't interested."

"I know. I just want _them_ to know."

The bartender regarded them warily as they approached the bar, a cleaning rag and a glass in his hands just like the stereotype. "What'll it be, strangers?" he finally asked.

_**He even **_**sounds**_** like one from the movies,**_ Tommy noted, astonished.

_**Huh,**_ Verne commented. _**Guess popular fictional history is more accurate than we thought.**_

Marty was the first to speak up, eying the various bottles behind the bar. "Um. . .ice water. . . ?" he asked tentatively.

There was a burst of laughter from one of the closer tables. Doc glanced over to see three old men sitting there, bright grins plastered across their faces. "Water?" the bartender repeated, smirking. "You want water, you'd better go duck your head in the horse trough out there!" He pulled out a shot glass and a bottle. "In here, we pour whiskey!"

He promptly filled the glass with alcohol. The liquid overflowed the edge and splashed onto the bar top – where it began to smoke. Doc, Marty, and Jennifer all stared at it for a long moment. _**Is that alcohol or paint thinner?**_ Tommy asked, sounding both nervous and fascinated.

_I'm not sure and I don't think I want to find out._ "Er – do you have anything non-alcoholic?" Doc asked as Marty tapped a finger cautiously against the shot.

"Well, we've got sarsaparilla," the bartender admitted, frowning curiously at Doc. "And some of the celery tonic somebody was peddling early this year." He nodded at Jennifer. "For the little lady?"

"For all of us," Doc said firmly. "I have no desire to get drunk this early in the day. Three sarsaparillas."

The bartender shrugged and got three new glasses and another bottle. "Fair enough."

"What's a sarsaparilla?" Marty hissed to his friend as the bartender poured.

"Essentially root beer," Doc whispered back.

"Oh. Good!" Marty snagged his glass and downed it in one long swallow. Jennifer did the same. "Ahhh, that's better."

Doc followed suit. Even if it was on the lukewarm side, the drink felt wonderful going down his throat. "Much better," he confirmed, smiling.

"So, what brings you lot to these parts?" the bartender asked, taking the unwanted shot for himself. Doc privately admired his courage in drinking it.

"Caravan accident," Marty said. "Can I have a refill?"

"We're former circus performers," Doc elaborated as the bartender obligingly refilled Marty's glass. "We'd recently struck out on our own to try for a normal life, but a gang of bandits attacked us and severely damaged our transportation. We walked here to hoping to get a little help."

"Is that why you're dressed up so funny?" one of the old men, sporting a thick handlebar mustache, asked.

"Essentially," Doc nodded. "We lost our regular clothes."

"Oh." The second of the men, with rheumy blue eyes and a bowler hat, cracked a grin. "I thought you might be from the East. My son came back from a visit there dressed like you lot once."

"Really?" Doc gave Jennifer a look. She smiled sheepishly and went back to her sarsaparilla.

"What did you do to him?" the third, with a thick white beard, asked his compatriot.

"Set fire to him."

"Can you guys tell us where to find the local blacksmith?" Marty asked hastily, fidgeting on his stool with an ill-at-ease look.

"Sure!" the handlebar-mustached man said.

"Great! Where is he?"

"In the cemetery," the bearded man said, smirking.

The bottom fell out of Doc's stomach. "He – he's dead?" he croaked.

"Yup," the bartender confirmed, expression turning serious. "Died of influenza late last year. Haven't been able to get anybody new yet, though we've tried." He suddenly raised an eyebrow. "None of _you_ would happen to know anything about the work, would you?" he asked, sounding desperately hopeful.

The words "No, sorry," were on Doc's lips when a sudden thought stopped him. He didn't know much about blacksmithing, but he knew some of the basics from boyhood research. And if they were truly desperate for someone to take over the position, they'd probably tolerate him learning on the job. If he said yes, not only would he have access to the blacksmith's tools whenever he wished, he'd also automatically get them a roof over their heads and a way of earning money! All of which would drastically cut down on the time needed to repair the DeLorean, which meant returning to their home time period that much quicker. _Hmmm. . . ._ "Well, I'm no expert, but I do have a good amount of experience in fixing wagons for the circus," he said, smiling. "I'm willing to give it a try, at least."

Marty and Jennifer both jerked their heads toward him, eyes wide with surprise. Fortunately, the bartender didn't notice. "Wonderful!" he said, grinning broadly. He picked up the bottle and ran it over their empty glasses. "I think that deserves a round on the house!"

"Thank you kindly," Doc said.

"Yeah. . uh, Doc – you _do_ know what you're doing, right?" Marty whispered as the bartender moved away.

_**As far as **_**we**_** know, you know nothing of blacksmithing,**_ Albert agreed.

"Maybe not as much as they'd like, but I _do_ have experience taking care of horses," Doc said to both of them, sipping his sarsaparilla. "One of my childhood dreams was to be a cowboy. I read as much as I could about the Old West back when I was younger. I even helped out on a neighbor's ranch before the man went bankrupt and had to sell the horses. I've picked up a few of the basics, such as how horseshoes are made. The rest – well, I'll just have to learn as I go along." He wiped his lips. "It's our best chance for getting home, Marty. I _had_ to take it."

"I know. I just hope nobody tries to run you out of town for making a mistake."

"I don't think they'd be _that_ unforgiving. Especially if they've been lacking for a blacksmith for a while."

The old timers, however, seemed determined to put the lie to his words, gazing at him critically. "You? The new blacksmith?" the one in the bowler hat said, all skepticism. "Old fella like you probably couldn't even lift the hammer."

"I'm stronger than I look," Doc said with a sly grin, the tentacles snickering in his head.

"Yeah, he helped with the wagons all the time back when we were with the show," Jennifer said. "He'll be fine – trust us."

"All right – far be it from us to contradict a lady," the handlebar-mustached one said, tipping his hat.

The doors to the saloon abruptly slammed open again. "Hey, barkeep!" a surprisingly-familiar voice yelled. "Whiskey!"

Wait – familiar-sounding voice? This far back in the past? Puzzled, Doc, Marty, and Jennifer turned as one. Standing in the doorway was a tallish man, dressed in a dusty black longcoat and a black hat that had seen better days. His face was covered in grime, and a good chunk of it was obscured by his thick black mustache. But Doc could easily see the man's eyes, peering out from beneath the ten-gallon's brim.

And they were the exact same eyes of one Biff Tannen. "Great Scott!"

"Holy shit," Marty whispered beside him. "No way. . . ."

_**Oh, for – how far back do we have to go before these people don't exist?**_ Tommy said grumpily.

_**Probably to before the dawn of human evolution,**_ Jules replied, sounding just as disgusted. _**No, further – he'd still have ancestors lurking in the pre-apes.**_

_**He probably **_**is**_** a pre-ape,**_ Albert said, hissing softly.

_Hush! We can't give ourselves away!_ Doc thought, eyes flicking left and right.

No one noticed the brief slip, though – all eyes were on the newcomer. He marched into the bar, followed by three other men all as dirt-covered and mean-looking as him. "Whiskey!" he repeated as they reached the bar, glowering at the bartender.

"Yes sir, Mr. Tannen!" The bartender hurriedly grabbed four shot glasses and filled them from the whiskey bottle. Tannen grabbed one and swallowed it in a single gulp – his eyes didn't even water. "Damn hot out there," he muttered, before noticing the three staring at him. "What do you want?"

"Sorry, we're new in town," Doc said, trying to smile. It came out more like a rictus of intermingled annoyance and fear. "Just curious about the residents."

Tannen snorted and motioned for a refill. One of his cronies, however, returned the group's curious stare. "Hey, that dude looks like McFly!" he said, pointing at Marty.

Tannen studied Marty a moment. "Huh. You kin to that hay barber?"

Marty blinked. "Uh. . . ."

Tannen scowled. "What's your name, dude?"

That got a pleased grin out of the teenager. "Eastwood," he said smoothly, leaning forward. "Martin _Clint_ Eastwood."

Tannen laughed. "What kind of stupid name is that?"

Marty visibly deflated. "I reckon he's the runt of the litter," another crony, a man with a face as long as a horse's, commented.

The first man, a curly-haired blond, circled them and grabbed Marty's chin firmly, squeezing the teen's cheeks so his mouth opened. "Will you take a look-see at these pearly whites?" he asked, sounding quite amused. "I ain't never seen teeth so straight that weren't store bought."

Marty yanked his face away, rubbing his abused jaw. Doc glared at the man. "I'll thank you _not_ to manhandle my nephew," he said coldly.

"Oh? And who are you, old man?" the crony retorted.

"My name is Emmett Wayne," Doc said, sitting up a little straighter. He felt the tentacles twitch a little behind him and sent a forceful reminder to keep still.

"Mr. Wayne's just volunteered to fill in as our blacksmith for a while," the bartender added, his tone pleading with Tannen to play nice.

Tannen arched an incredulous eyebrow. "Him?"

"Dude'll be dead within a week," the third crony, who couldn't have bathed in a month, predicted.

Doc bristled, annoyed. "I am perfectly capable of performing the duties of this job! Just because I'm older doesn't mean I have one foot in the grave!"

The gang laughed derisively. "Sure you don't," the third mocked. "Somebody call the undertaker and let him know he'll have a new customer soon!"

The tentacles twitched again. _**Damn it, I want to get him!**_ Tommy snarled.

_**He deserves it!**_ Albert agreed.

_No! Don't!_

_**Come on, Father, we wouldn't kill him. Just shake him up a little. Like Biff in 1985-A.**_

_I said no. I'm not saying he's not a jackass and doesn't deserve it, but being chased out of town by a terrified mob would _not_ help us in the long run. Wait until we're alone, and we can take out our frustrations on something inanimate._

_**You **_**could**_** just punch him normally,**_ Verne suggested.

_Yes, but judging by the company he keeps, I doubt I would like the outcome._

Marty scowled, just as pissed off as the arms – and less able to keep his mouth shut. "Lay off, jerks! He'll show you all!"

"Yeah, I don't see any of _you_ trying out for the job!" Jennifer added.

"We got better things to do," Tannen told her. He grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured himself yet another shot. "And what's your name, filly?" he added after gulping it down, eying her with interest.

Jennifer glowered at him. "My name's Jennifer Streisand, and I'm _his_ fiancee," she snapped, pointing at Marty. "So don't even think about it."

Tannen snorted. "You've got bad taste, girly." Then he shrugged. "But you're too little for me anyhow."

"You know, we've been making all the introductions around here," Doc said, cutting off Marty's attempt to defend his girlfriend. "How about you tell us _your_ name?"

"Glad to. Buford Tannen," Tannen said, taking yet another shot of whiskey. "This here is Stubble, Buck, and Ceegar." Each gang member nodded in turn.

Jennifer frowned, thoughtful. "Huh. . . . You know, I've heard of a Tannen around here, but he was called 'Mad Dog'–"

The bar went dead silent. Buford slammed his shot on the bar and stuck a mud-caked finger in Jennifer's face. "I _hate_ that name," he informed her, voice low and dangerous. "Don't you _ever_ call me that, missy, you hear? Unless you're hoping to get a bullet in your belly."

"You'd shoot an unarmed girl?" Marty said, jaw dropping.

"Ain't no difference to me," Buford snapped at him. "Nobody calls me Mad Dog." He glared at their clothes. "Especially not any duded-up, egg-sucking gutter trash!"

"_What_ did you call her?" Marty snarled, starting to get to his feet.

Doc grabbed his arm. "I think that insult was intended for all of us," he said, trying not to let his nerves show. He didn't really blame Marty for getting mad, but the last thing any of them needed was to get into a bar brawl with a more violent version of Biff.

Jennifer held up her hands. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't realize it was _you_," she said, obviously thinking the same things Doc was. "Thought it might be a relative."

Buford nodded and backed off. "All right – but just the same, don't you start slinging that name around," he warned her, going back to his whiskey.

"Yeah, like we're going to want to talk about you," Marty grumbled, still looking like he wanted to smack Buford one.

"Why don't I show you boys – and lady – the blacksmith shop?" the bartender cut in, much to Doc's relief. "Joey! Mind the bar for a few minutes!"

"Yes, let's see what we're getting into," Doc agreed, getting up. "Come on, Marty, Jennifer."

Jennifer jumped to her feet to follow, but Marty lingered a moment, glaring at Buford. "Marty!" Doc repeated, tone firm.

Marty sighed and turned, reluctantly bringing up the rear. "What an asshole," he muttered once they were outside.

"I know, but let's not antagonize him," Doc said, as much to the still-grumbling tentacles as to his teenage friend. "We've only been her one day – no need to see just how violent this era is just yet."

"Sorry about that, folks," the bartender said once they were safely out of earshot. "He don't live here, but he comes around a lot." He nodded at Marty. "Listen to your uncle, Mr. Eastwood, and don't get on his bad side. He's a fast gun, and can hold one he–" his eyes flicked to Jennifer "–ck of a grudge."

"We'll remember that," Doc nodded. "We're not holding his behavior against you, don't worry."

The bartender grinned. "Thanks." He held out a hand. "Name's Chester Carruthers, by the by."

"Pleasure to meet you," Doc said, shaking it. "Now, about the blacksmith shop?"

"Yeah, it's over this way." Chester led them back over to the large building they'd tried before entering the saloon. "I'd better warn you, it'll be a mess. None of us have been inside since he died. Didn't want to catch anything."

"Perfectly understandable," Doc nodded.

"Hope it's safe now," Jennifer mumbled, twisting her hands together.

"Oh, almost a year after the fact? We'll be fine."

"Hopefully," Chester agreed, before he opened up the big double doors with a grunt. "Here she is."

The trio looked around. The building was essentially an oversized barn, complete with stables in the far corner filled with wilted, moldy hay. There was a large forge against one wall, large, silent, and cold, and a thick, rather dangerous-looking anvil nearby. A rack next to that held a few old horseshoes, along with various lengths of iron. In the very back sat a stove, a bookshelf, and a king-sized bed on a little platform, the remains of the old blacksmith's life. Marty smiled. "Reminds me of your place back home," he told Doc quietly.

Doc nodded, glancing up toward the rafters, then stomping on the floor and feeling a wall. "Looks structurally sound," he muttered. "Perhaps a bit cramped for three people, but we've had worse." He nodded again, decisively. "This will do nicely."

Chester grinned. "Glad you feel that way." He glanced back at the saloon over his shoulder. "All right – unless you need any help settling in, I'd better get back. Joey don't have much experience dealing with Tannen, and him getting upset once is enough. You lot be careful around him," he added with a significant frown at Marty. "He don't forget folk he don't like easy." The teen winced and looked away.

"We will," Doc promised, patting Marty's shoulder. "And we don't really have anything to move in, so we should be just fine. Thank you for all your help – and here, let me settle for our drinks before you go. . . ." He reached out into his pocket and fished out a few bills, passing them over.

"Much obliged," Chester said, grinning. "Glad to have you here, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Eastwood, Miss Streisand. Welcome to Hill Valley." Giving them each a parting nod, he headed back across the dusty street.

Doc closed the door behind him. The tentacles immediately popped out from beneath his coat, wriggling with sheer relief at being free. _**It's stuffy under there,**_ Tommy said, giving himself a shake.

Doc tilted his head, resisting a laugh. "Odd choice of words, considering you don't breathe."

_**It seemed appropriate,**_ Verne said, oscillating in what passed for a tentacle shrug. _**You know how much we hate being confined. It's honestly hard to stay still for that long.**_

"Fair enough." Doc patted Jules. "How are you boys doing?"

_**Still kind of pissed off at Buford,**_ Albert admitted.

"Well, go fool around with some of that iron until it's out of your system," Doc said, pointing toward the rack. "We can't afford any slip-ups." The tentacles nodded, then grabbed one of the less-rusty bars and started playing with it. "How about you two?" Doc added, looking over at Marty and Jennifer.

"Okay, if wondering why the hell we still have to deal with Tannens," Marty said, scowling. "Gutter trash. . . ."

"Marty–"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, the temper thing," Marty cut him off, waving his hand. "But he insulted my girlfriend right in front of me, Doc!"

"I was half-ready to punch him myself," Jennifer confessed, rolling her eyes.

"Trust me, we're all disgusted with the continual existence of that particular family," Doc said. "All I'm asking is, please try to remember he has a gun. Medical technology in this time period – and especially out here – is far from the best, and I refuse to bury either of you."

Marty went white. "Jesus, Doc! What's your plan, give me nightmares while I'm back here?"

"It seemed to work when I came back from the future, didn't it?"

"Yeah, but at least then I was still in my own time period." Marty sighed. "I'll do my best to behave, Doc. Though I can't promise that, if I see a chance for a free shot, I won't take it."

"I highly doubt anything like that will happen. He's has to be at least a little smarter than Biff to survive out here – and Biff himself wasn't a complete idiot."

"Okay, Doc, got you. Leave the asshole alone." Marty looked at Jennifer. "You seemed to know about this guy – what can you tell us about 'Mad Dog?' Is he basically Biff in a smellier package?"

Jennifer grimaced. "Maybe, though I think he's more like the Hell Valley version. Chester was right in calling him a fast gun – he's supposed to have killed twelve men."

Marty swallowed. "Yikes."

"Yeah. That doesn't include American Indians or Chinese people, either. And nobody's sure on the exact figure because he shot the newspaper editor in 1884." Jennifer put an arm around her boyfriend. "'Remember he has a gun' sounds like really good advice now, huh?"

"You ain't kidding."

_**How did he get the nickname "Mad Dog?"**_ Tommy asked, curious.

Doc relayed the question. "His nasty temper," Jennifer replied – then, snickering, added, "And a tendency to drool." The tentacles buzzed. "I think it fits him pretty – whoa, you're bending the _hell_ out of that bar!"

"Indeed," Doc agreed, doing a double take as he took note of all the twists and turns now in the metal.

_**It's not like it's difficult for us,**_ Jules said, adding another bend. _**It's like how you would play with a pipe cleaner.**_

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Doc nodded – and then, suddenly, his face lit up in a wide grin. "And that's our smithing problem solved!

_**Huh?**_

"Huh?" Marty unknowingly echoed.

Doc laughed and clapped his hands together. "I can't believe I didn't think of it before! It's so obvious! You four have more than the required strength to shape metal any way someone might need it. So long as I figure out the shape we need, doing the required shoeing and repairing should be a snap! Hell, I might not even have to use the forge, unless someone insists on watching!"

_**Hey, yeah!**_ Verne said, schreeking enthusiastically. _**We could get all the work done really fast! Probably in about half the time it would take for any human!**_

"Precisely! Which means yet more time for me to get the DeLorean fixed!"

"All right!" Marty hugged what he could of the tentacles. "You guys are the best!"

"We love you," Jennifer agreed, following suit.

_**Hooray for us!**_ Tommy squealed.

Doc laughed again. "All right, all right, everyone settle down," he said. "We still have a lot of work ahead of us."

_**We should make a to-do list,**_ Jules suggested as he and his brothers set aside the now thoroughly-warped piece of metal. _**Figure out just what it is we need and what steps we have to take to secure it.**_

"Good idea," Doc said, starting to pace. "As of this moment, we've procured shelter, employment, and tools to fix the DeLorean – far ahead of schedule, I might add. What else do we need in the immediate future?"

"Cooler clothes," Jennifer said immediately, fanning herself. "I think I've already sweated out my sarsparilla."

"Right," Doc said with a firm nod. "We'll make that our next priority. I saw a clothing shop on this street – we'll head over there right now and buy a few basic outfits."

"Got enough cash on you, Doc?" Marty asked.

"Oh, definitely. I emptied out all the relevant pouches in my suitcase before we left the DeLorean. Purchases won't be a problem for a little while yet."

Jules suddenly squeaked. _**Er – you may be wrong on that front, Father.**_

"What? What now?" Doc asked, craning his head to look at the tentacle.

_**Well – I admit none of us know much about textile manufacturing and such back here, but – what if you need something tailored?**_

Doc winced. "Oh, damn."

"Jesus, Doc, we're on a roll here with the good news! Don't start with the doom and gloom again!" Marty begged.

"Don't worry, this is something that only affects me," Doc said, waving a hand.

"Hey, whatever affects you affects us," Jennifer pointed out, frowning at him. "Just spill it and let's get it over with."

Doc sighed. "Well, to put it simply, we're going to have to hope that the clothing store sells prefabricated items. Given my condition, being measured for anything custom-made is out of the question." He looked down at himself. "As if I needed yet another reminder that I can't go out in public too much, even with a coat. . . ." He bit his lip. "I hope this doesn't turn out to be the hottest summer on record."

"Oh, I gotcha," Marty said, he and Jennifer sharing a sympathetic glance at Doc's predicament. "But they've gotta have premade shirts and stuff like that, right? Even out here?"

"This is post-Industrial Revolution," Jennifer added. "Premade was taking off about this time."

"I know, but the problem is Hill Valley is barely on the map in this time," Doc explained. "Such a small town might not have a clothing store like we know it – just a tailor or a seamstress. Possibly both, one for each sex." He shook his head. "We'd have better luck in one of the cities – San Francisco would work just fine – but getting there is a day trip at the least, and would severely eat into our funds." He glared down at his clothes. "Of course, I can't go around dressed like this, either. I'd die of heat exhaustion before the week was out."

"Well – uh – people are probably gonna notice you're kind of stiff. Maybe we can say you just have a back brace and aren't comfortable with people getting too close to it," Marty suggested.

Doc shook his head. "That would be a good idea if I hadn't just been hired on as village smith. They won't want someone who they think is crippled for the job."

"Do you know your own measurements?" Jennifer asked, tilting her head to study him. "So they wouldn't have to take them?"

"I can estimate," Doc shrugged. "I've never really needed to know before."

_**Want us to try taking them?**_ Verne asked. _**It's the least we can do, being the cause of your current troubles.**_

"If you think you can, go ahead."

The tentacles set to work. _**Too bad we can't sew,**_ Albert said, measuring Doc's inner thigh. _**Save us all a major headache.**_

"I might learn after this. . .but nothing we can do about it now. We'll just have to go down there, see what they have, and hope they don't insist on taking a fitting."

"And if they do – maybe we can just barricade ourselves in here and sneak out at night to get food," Marty joked.

"Not funny, Marty – but just in case let's make that Plan Z."

The tentacles finished their work. _**We think we have proper estimates,**_ Jules reported. _**I'm 98.7% sure, anyway. You should get something that will fit.**_

"All right." Doc took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Let's go find the clothing shop. Keep your fingers crossed. . . ."


	3. Evil Manifest - Bucaw

Chapter 3

Saturday, July 4th

1:31 P.M.

Fortunately for everyone's continued sanity, Hill Valley's tiny clothing shop _did_ have some prefabricated items available – mostly clothes people had either never paid for or returned for some reason. The head seamstress proved very sympathetic to their plight and allowed them to sort through the various cast-offs to their heart's content. Jennifer almost immediately found two light cotton dresses; Marty, a shirt, two pants, and a brown patterned serape that reminded him of the man whose last name he was borrowing. "Hey – if I'm gonna be an Eastwood, I might as well look the part," he told Doc with a grin, trying it on for size.

Doc chuckled as he pulled out a shirt that looked like it would fit. "I don't think there's any way you could _avoid_ looking the part," he commented. "In fact, by the time all this is over, you may have more experience at being a cowboy than the real Eastwood."

"Tell me about it." Marty's smile faded as he pulled the serape off over his head. "Though. . .Doc? That doesn't mean we're going to be stuck here for like a year or something, does it?"

"Heaven forbid!" Doc said, horrified by the prospect. "We're in enough trouble as it is. And I doubt I can hide the kids for an entire year." He located a pair of pants and eyed them critically. "Hmmm. . .I can't set a definite time, not with so many variables unknown, but ideally we'll be out of here by winter." He scowled. "I wish I knew when the _real_ replacement blacksmith showed up. If we're not back home by then, things could get messy."

_**Maybe you could offer to partner up before you leave if that happens,**_Jules suggested.

_It might be our only option,_ Doc agreed._ I hope it doesn't come to that, though. Hiding you four from someone who's always in the shop. . . ._ He let out a deep sigh. "That hoverboard had better have enough viable parts," he muttered.

"Do whatever you need to it," Marty said, draping the serape over his shoulder. "I want to be out of here by my next birthday."

Doc paused in putting the pants back. Next birthday. . .they'd left less than a month before Marty would have celebrated it in 1986. And now, with so much time traveling under their belts, and the repairs to the DeLorean looming up before them. . . . _Great Scott, he _is_ going to celebrate his next birthday here! Temporally speaking, anyway. Jennifer too, most likely._

_**Are we going to have a party?**_ Tommy asked eagerly.

_I don't think that would be wise. But we should mark the occasion somehow. It might help to keep everyone's spirits up._

_**Or it might just remind them of all the time they're losing from living their regular lives,**_ Albert said.

_Oh, shush._

Jennifer came over, dresses bundled up under her arm. "You guys find everything you need?" she asked.

"Almost," Doc said, sorting through the diminishing pile and selecting another shirt. "What I'm really hoping for is a lighter coat. I'd prefer not to wear this heavy thing if I can get around it."

"Too bad you can't go coatless," Marty said, wincing. "You're gonna cook."

"Sweating profusely is a better alternative to scaring everyone in town with the kids," Doc said firmly. "Not to mention their appearance would most likely change history – and not for the better."

Marty nodded slowly. "Yeah. . .the last thing I want is to go home and find Hill Valley all warped again. Hell Valley was bad enough."

"I hate to tell you this, but that's always a possibility with time-displaced peoples," Doc admitted. "But I'm hopeful that, if there are any changes, they'd be more positive ones like the ones that resulted after your initial trip to 1955."

"Didn't you say something about the space-time continuum being self-correcting when we first started out?" Jennifer asked, wrinkling her forehead.

"Great Scott, I don't even remember anymore. . .but I'll accept the idea of the very essence of the space-time continuum being on our side," Doc said with a smile. "It's a good antidote to all the doom and gloom we've been dealing with lately."

"Everything all right over here?"

The head seamstress approached them, obviously curious about their conversation. "We're fine," Doc told her, finishing his sorting and finding a suitable pair of pants. No coat though – damn. Well, you couldn't have everything. "I think we're about set, really."

"Unless you've got a hat that goes with this," Marty added jokingly, holding up his serape.

"Actually, we do have a couple of things from the local milliner. . . ." The seamstress withdrew to a far corner, then returned with a wide, flat-brimmed cowboy hat. "Will this do?"

"That's perfect!" Marty took it and plopped it on his head for a test fit. "All right. Now I really feel like I belong here."

"Anything for you two?" the seamstress asked with a polite smile.

"We'll take a look later," Doc said, straightening up. "Right now, the thing I want to do most is go back to the shop and change."

"I'm sure – those clothes _do_ look rather heavy," the seamstress nodded. "I hope everything fits. If you need any alterations, just come and call on me again."

"Hopefully that won't be necessary," Doc said, trying to hide the grimace that resulted from considering the woman's reaction to the tentacles.

_**You know what you should have done? Made us detachable,**_ Verne commented.

_Wha – I _did_! You may have forgotten, but my initial intentions _never_ included welding you into my spine!_

_**No, no, not the harness – **_**us**_**! The tentacles ourselves! Like you could pop us into and out of the harness individually.**_

Doc frowned. _Interesting idea, but I don't think I could do it without hurting you. Or myself. Especially not with the tools of this era. I think we'll continue to make do with long coats._

_**Fine by me,**_ Albert said, sounding a tad disturbed. _**Verne's idea sounds creepy.**_

_Heh. Though, while we're on the subject, have any of you ever wanted – autonomous life? You know, the kind that doesn't include being attached to another person?_

_**Not really,**_ Jules replied. _**What would be the point? The human world barely accepts us as attached to one of their own. They never would if we had independent life and movement. We couldn't get jobs or shelter or anything else. We may have human intellect, but when it comes right down to it, we **_**are**_** still machines.**_

_**Besides, we don't want to leave you,**_ Tommy added, pressing a little closer against Doc's back. _**You're our Father.**_

Doc smiled. _I wouldn't want you to leave me either._

"Hey, Doc!"

Doc blinked a few times as Marty snapped his fingers in front of his face. "I said we're ready to pay," he said. "You all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Doc said, shaking his head a bit. "Just got – absorbed in thought for a moment." He turned to the seamstress and pulled out a few bills. "How much do I owe you?"

The clothes were fairly cheap by 1985 – or even 1955 – standards. Doc handed over the cash, promised to come back once they were all settled in, then wished the woman a good day before leading the teens back to the blacksmith shop. "So, what were you and the kids talking about?" Marty asked quietly as he opened the door.

"Verne was saying I should have made the tentacles themselves detachable from the harness," Doc explained. "Which might have been useful before, but now. . .I'll have to work on being more discreet when we talk," he added, blushing from embarrassment. "It won't be good for my image back here if I keep drifting into what looks like fugue states."

"We'll give you a nudge when you need it," Jennifer promised.

_**And we'll do our best to keep our comments brief when you're in public,**_ Jules said, sounding rather embarrassed himself.

Once back in the shop, everyone grabbed an outfit and disappeared into a horse stall to change. Doc eagerly stripped off his heavy 1955 clothing, letting himself air out for a moment as the tentacles made some holes in his new shirt. "_Whew!_ Far, far too hot," he muttered, pulling on the pants once he'd sweated himself out.

_**Remember, you have to put this back on,**_ Verne reminded him, holding up the long coat he'd thrown over the door. _**Are you sure you won't overheat anyway?**_

_There's a much reduced chance with proper clothing for the weather underneath. I don't really have a choice in the matter – just have to grit my teeth and bear it._

After putting on the newly-adjusted shirt and reluctantly slipping on the coat, Doc exited his stall to see Marty already out and examining himself in the mirror. The teen was dressed to what passed for the nines back here, with hat and serape and a playful sneer. As Doc watched, Marty glowered at his reflection, hand poised to grab a nonexistent gun. "The heart, Ramone," he drawled. "Aim for the heart, or you'll never stop me."

Tommy playfully flipped the back of the serape over Marty's head. "Hey!"

Doc snorted as the tentacles buzzed. "You're really getting into this whole 'Clint Eastwood' fantasy, aren't you?"

"It makes this whole stupid situation more bearable," Marty said, shaking the cloak off. "If we're gonna go through this, I'm gonna have some fun with it."

"Fair enough," Doc nodded. Then, adopting a drawl of his own, he added, "Just remember – real life ain't like the movies, pilgrim."

Marty stared at him for a moment, then began snickering. "That had to be the _worst_ John Wayne impression I've ever heard."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Jennifer agreed, exiting her stall. She was in a creamy white dress speckled with little blue flowers, the lighter-colored of her two options. She was fussing with her hair as she spoke, trying to wrap it up into a bun. "Did you even _watch_ any of his movies, Doc?"

"Of course! Let's hear your Barbara Streisand," Doc countered.

"Let's not." Jennifer finally got her hair to stay in an acceptable position off her neck. "So, I guess the next order of business is to clean this place up?"

"For me, the next order of business is to hit the bathroom," Marty said, shifting back and forth.

"Outhouse, you mean," Doc corrected.

Marty grimaced. "Yeah. Forgot about that." He looked nervously at his friend. "How bad is that going to be?"

"Only one way to find out." The group went out the back door. The outhouse sat about twelve feet away from the main building – a tiny, leaning shack that didn't look inviting in the slightest. The three eyed it. "Well, Marty?" Doc asked, the tentacles peeking out from under his coat.

Marty bit his lip, looking right and left. "Isn't there _any_ running water around here?" he asked.

"Almost certainly not," Doc informed him. "We passed by the public bath house on our way into this town. Do you think they'd have that if they had any other choice?"

Jennifer hugged herself, shifting from foot to foot. "Public bathing? I know it's common now, but – jeez. . . ."

"Don't worry, I plan to get us our own private tub as soon as possible," Doc reassured her. "I certainly can't use the public house. You might as well get it over with," he added to Marty. "You're going to have to get used to it."

"Right." Marty started toward the little building, wrinkling his nose. "They never show _this_ in any of the movies," he muttered.

"Yes, because we all needed to see Clint Eastwood going to the bathroom."

"Hello?"

Startled, Doc and Jennifer turned, the tentacles quickly disappearing under Doc's coat. "Hello?" Doc called back, advancing back toward the shop. "Is someone there?"

A red-haired man peeked around the side of the building. He smiled upon seeing the two, holding up a hand in greeting. "Sorry to disturb you," he said in a thick Irish accent, coming to meet them. "But I heard at the saloon that we'd gotten a new blacksmith today, and I wanted to meet you." He held out a hand. "Me name's Seamus McFly."

Doc stared for a moment. Not just because that, after all his warnings about not interacting with their ancestors, one of them had actually come to seek them out – it was also that Seamus looked nearly _identical_ to Marty! The ginger hair was of course different, as was the mustache and scruffy beard, but other than that. . . . _And I always thought he got his looks from his mother's side of the family,_ he thought, slowly taking Seamus's hand. _Great Scott._ "Good to meet you," he managed with a weak smile. "I'm Emmett Wayne, and this is–"

"OH MY GOD!"

Marty shot away from the outhouse, gasping for breath. "I can't do it, Doc!" he said, eyes watering and wide with horror. "I can't go in there!"

Seamus backed away a step, startled. "What's troubling the young man?" he asked, rather uncertainly.

"I think my nephew just had a bad experience with the outhouse," Doc said, patting Marty's back.

"It _smells_," Marty said, wrinkling his nose. "I mean, it _really_ smells. It's like a – oh, hi," he cut off, blinking rapidly as he took in Seamus.

"Hello," Seamus said with a little smile. "I heard you were new in town. Just wanted to welcome you. I'm Seamus McFly."

Marty's eyes went wide again. "You're – er, Marty Eastwood," he covered quickly. "This is my girlfr– my _fiancee_, Jennifer Streisand. Sorry about scaring you like that, it's just – that outhouse is _horrible_."

"Oh come on, Marty," Doc said, shaking his head as he proceeded toward the little shack. "It cannot possibly be that–"

The stench hit him about a foot from the door. "GAH!" he gasped, stumbling backwards. "Great Scott!"

Seamus followed for his own sniff. "Whew!" he said, covering his nose. "I don't think anyone's emptied it out since Charles passed away, God rest his soul."

"But Chester told us that was months ago!" Doc protested, holding his own nose shut. "Surely the natural processes of decomposition would have reduced the material responsible for causing the smell! It's almost like something _died_ in there!"

"Well, there _was_ the chicken."

Doc blinked. "The – chicken?"

"Charles owned a pet hen – Cynthia, I think her name was. We haven't seen her since he passed on. Most of us thought she'd got eaten not long after he left us, God rest him, but I suppose she might have made a home in the outhouse. That _does_ smell like chicken droppings in there."

Doc glanced back at the outhouse, biting his lip as he tried to keep from inhaling too much. Was he really in the mood to investigate possibly dead chickens? On the other hand, they _did_ need a place to go to the toilet. . . . Steeling his nerves and taking a deep breath, he strode forward and flung open the door.

As might have been expected, the interior of the tiny shed was absolutely filthy. Chicken droppings covered the floor and the lower half of the walls. Worms and grubs wriggled in the grime. Mold was growing in large, irregular patches where the damp had soaked in. And, roosting on what passed for the toilet, was a large, rather thin, very dirty hen. It tilted its head at Doc, eying him curiously. "Bucaw?"

Doc stared back for a moment. "Excuse me," he finally said, retreating back to the rear wall of the shop. He leaned over and took a few slow breaths, trying to calm his roiling stomach. "Great Scott, how _disgusting_. . . ."

**Why**_** did we want to come back here for your birthday again?**_ Tommy asked, sounding like he wanted to vomit too.

_**To be fair, we intended to stay in a hotel, not in a blacksmith's barn with a rogue chicken having taken over the outhouse,**_ Jules pointed out.

_**Oooh, am I ever glad we can't smell directly,**_ Verne said. _**Getting it through Father is quite enough.**_

_**Who votes that we make the chicken into dinner tonight?**_ Albert asked, an evil note in his voice.

_Sounds good to me! If I can even choke anything down after that. . . ._

Seamus joined Doc, looking rather pale himself. "Well – you've got quite the mess on your hands," he said. "If you need any help getting it cleaned up. . . ."

"Thank you, but we'll figure out something." Doc glanced back – oh, you could practically _see_ the stink lines coming off of it. "At this point, it might be easier to just demolish it and build a new one."

"Aye," Seamus nodded.

"Are there any around here that we can use until we've got that one sorted?" Marty said, grimacing as he started rocking back and forth again.

"The one at the saloon should be fine," Seamus assured him. "I don't think he'll mind much if you borrow it a while." He gave the teenager a grin. "So, Mr. Eastwood, you're taking over the shop then?"

"Not me – my uncle," Marty corrected him, pointing at the mostly-recovered Doc. "Though I'm gonna help out, yeah."

Seamus looked between the pair, frowning. "You're the new blacksmith, Mr. Wayne? But – er – you're – that is to say, you are–"

"Old?" Doc finished, a bit more irritably than he had intended. Blame it on finding out first-hand just how bad chicken droppings could stink. "I assure you, Mr. McFly, I am not going to drop dead anytime soon."

"He's really good at what he does," Marty added, frowning. "We used to be part of a circus, and he was in charge of fixing the wagons. He's spent his whole life doing this sort of thing."

Seamus turned faintly pink. "I'll take your word for it, Mr. Eastwood. We've been needing a blacksmith for a while now," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "I didn't mean to cause any offense, Mr. Wayne. I'm sure you won't let us down."

"Thank you," Doc said. "Sorry for snapping at you like that. I'm just tired of being judged by my white hair. Not to mention I'm not entirely over the smell. . . ."

"Aye," Seamus said, eying the outhouse like it was a time bomb. "It's all right."

Marty jiggled up and down. "So, ah, can we run over to the Palace?" he asked sheepishly. "I'm still – ya know."

"Of course," Doc agreed immediately, wanting to put as much distance between himself and that outhouse as possible. "Seems the best place to look for more information on the town."

"And maybe we can find someone in there willing to help us clean out our outhouse," Jennifer said.

Marty made a face. "Yeah, good luck. Anybody with half a brain is going to run screaming."

_**Maybe we can trick those old coots who were making fun of us before into helping,**_ Albert said, forcing Doc to cover his smile with his hand.

_**Too bad we can't get Tannen to do it,**_ Tommy added. _**His family knows manure inside and out!**_

_Normally that would be funny, Tommy, but – not right at the moment,_ Doc thought, his stomach lurching again as they made their way back over to the saloon.

_**Sorry.**_

A somewhat busier Palace greeted the four as they entered – apparently, a good portion of the male population had their lunch here. To his surprise, Doc heard a growl from his abdomen as he watched a nearby table tuck in._ Well, hunger certainly didn't take long in reclaiming its rightful place, did it?_

_**To be fair, Father, none of you have had anything to eat since we left the DeLorean, **_Jules said. _**I'm not that surprised that you're capable of hunger even after that scene of gruesome decay behind our shop. **_

_**That's another thing we have to figure out – food,**_ Albert added. _**Are we going to hunt our own? I mean, that's what people do in this time period, right?**_

_**We're forbidden from killing anything, remember?**_ Verne scolded him.

_No, you're forbidden from hurting or killing _humans_,_ Doc corrected. _Food animals would be all right. I think we should be able to buy whatever edibles we need in-town, though. Actually going hunting would be a rather involved process and take time away from our repair work. We should keep it as a "need to survive" measure._

_**Or for revenge,**_ Albert added, bringing up an image of the chicken.

_Right. Though this line of thought is making me wonder if I should purchase a gun – not necessarily for hunting, but for self-defense. It would probably be considered a little odd if I didn't have one, even if I never used it._

_**Sheesh! Every time we turn around, there's something else we have to get!**_ Tommy complained.

_It's a complicated time we're living in, kid._

"Hello, Seamus!" Chester called, pulling Doc out of his internal dialogue. "See you've met the new blacksmith. What do you think of the shop, Mr. Wayne?"

"Except for the outhouse, it's fine," Doc said, casually glancing left and right. Nope – no sign of Buford. He and his gang must have already cleared out for the day. Good – there was only so much Tannen one man could take.

Chester frowned. "What's wrong with the outhouse?"

"An evil chicken," Marty said bluntly.

"An–?"

"Remember Charlie's old hen Cynthia?" Seamus said. "She's taken up roosting in the outhouse."

"Yeah, and the smell's _awful_," Marty elaborated. "Bet it could knock out a bear from ten feet. Okay if we use yours for the moment?"

"Certainly – it's right in the back," Chester said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward a door set behind the bar. Marty promptly headed through. "Sorry to hear about that," the bartender added, turning back to Doc. "Need a hand getting it cleaned up?"

"If you'd be so kind," Doc said gratefully. "Just bring something to wear over your nose – it really does stink."

"Bet that chicken ain't gonna see sunset," the man with the handlebar mustache said between mouthfuls of some sort of mush.

"Oh, I think the odds are good on that one," Doc nodded. "However, given that I'm not going to be able to get at said animal until the outhouse is made safe for humans once more – what's on the menu, Chester?"

"Right now – chicken," Chester said with a smirk. "With corn or green beans on the side. Ain't nothing fancy, but it'll fill you up."

Doc looked at Jennifer. "Do you have any preference?"

"Not really," Jennifer said. "I'm honestly not that–"

Her stomach abruptly let out a fierce rumble, causing her to look down in surprise. "Uh. . .still don't care," she said, blushing.

"Corn will be fine, then," Doc said, holding back a smile. "Marty will probably want something too. . .three of those, and three more sarsaparillas."

"Right." Chester relayed the order to Joey, who disappeared into the back. "Do you want anything, Seamus?"

"Just my usual," Seamus said, taking a seat at the bar. Chester grabbed a bottle from the shelves and poured the Irishman a shot. This one didn't smoke when it splashed onto the bar, but Doc was sure that it was as strong as the whiskey Chester had poured earlier. _You really have to admire the fortitude of people back in this time, to drink that sort of thing on a daily basis._

_**Fortitude – or insanity?**_ was Verne's comment on that.

"Hey, I gotta question for you folks," the bowler-hatted man from the old-timers' table suddenly called.

Doc and Jennifer frowned over at them. "Yes?" Doc asked.

"Well, you said Mr. Eastwood is your nephew, Mr. Wayne, and Miss Streisand your niece-to-be. So why do they call you – 'Doc?'" He said the nickname hesitantly, as if it felt strange on his tongue. "Odd thing to call family."

Ooops – Doc hadn't even considered that. He was so used to the nickname, it hadn't even occurred to him to tell Marty he ought to call him "Uncle." "Well–" he began, desperately searching his mind for an excuse.

"It was an old nickname of his in the circus," Jennifer cut in, rescuing him. "We ended up picking it up. It's a habit now."

"Oh." The man arched an eyebrow. "But 'Doc?'"

"I was good at 'healing' the broken wagons," Doc said, shooting Jennifer a grateful smile. "If you're looking for a town physician on top of a blacksmith, I can't help you, I'm afraid."

Chester chuckled. "Don't worry, Mr. Wayne – being the blacksmith's enough."

Joey returned to the front with three plates of fried chicken and rather mushy-looking corn just as Marty reentered the bar. Doc frowned – the teen was rather pale. "Marty? Are you all right?" he asked.

Marty nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine, Doc. Just–" He saw the food and grimaced. "Damn, you ordered lunch? I dunno if I have much of an appetite."

"Wait until you actually sit down to see," Jennifer said, rubbing her belly.

_**Methinks our friend has just experienced a variety of new and different smells,**_ Albert remarked.

_Well, it had to be better than our outhouse, at least,_ Doc said, taking the plates and leading the teens over to a secluded corner. _He actually made it through the defecation process._

_**True, but – I bet the first thing he's going to ask you once we sit is if there's any chance of you building a flush toilet,**_Verne said.

True to Verne's prediction, the first words out of Marty's mouth once they were safely sequestered at their table were, "For the love of God, Doc, tell me you know something about plumbing!"

"A little, but not enough to improve the bathroom situation," Doc told him, patting his shoulder. "The town doesn't have a sewer system yet either, so even if I did have more knowledge, I wouldn't really have anything to work with. Sorry, kid."

"Was it really that bad?" Jennifer asked, squeezing her hands together apprehensively.

"Not as bad as our chicken shit house, but I ended up holding my breath anyway." Marty shook his head. "How do people _stand_ it?"

"They're used to it," Doc said, starting in on his meal. It was actually pretty good – and cooked well, to his mild relief. "It's just a fact of life back here."

"Yeah, fact of life. . .I bet real toilets were like the second coming of Christ for some of them."

Doc couldn't help a snort of laughter. "I don't think it was _that_ big of a deal!"

"It would be for me!" Marty poked at his food. "Man, every time I think I couldn't miss home any more than I already do, something like _this_ happens. Even in 1955, they had indoor plumbing."

Doc gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'm not wild about it either, Marty. I'll see what I can do to work up an acceptable substitute. There must be a way to at least disguise the smell a little. . . ."

"At this point you're gonna be building us a whole new bathroom," Jennifer commented, trying a scoop of corn.

"Well, actually having a few creature comforts will make living here easier. I'm willing to take a bit of time for that. Right now, though, priority number one is to get our new home cleaned out and liveable. Then tonight I'll bring the DeLorean in and start taking apart the hoverboard."

"So glad we have that," Marty said, finally starting to eat his food rather than play with it.

Me too." Jennifer smirked, though her eyes were sad. "Though it figures – I try to bring home something from the future and it completely wrecks the world; you do it accidentally and it becomes our only chance to get home. I guess we cancel each other out."

Doc winced. "We're really not trying to act like hypocrites, Jennifer."

"I know, I know. Different situation entirely." She sighed. "I'm sorry again for all of this. If I hadn't gone kind of crazy worrying about money for our future selves, we'd be home already."

Marty reached over to squeeze her hand. "Stop beating yourself up already, Jen. You didn't know Biff was gonna get his dirty paws on the thing. Hell, if I hadn't already known Doc would kick my ass for it, I might have tried sneaking that Almanac back."

Doc frowned at them. "Profiting off future knowledge isn't ethical – at least in my eyes," he scolded them. "And seeing how I'm the one with the time machine. . . ."

"Weren't you ever tempted, though?" Jennifer asked. "Aren't you sick of living in a garage?"

"Not really – I practically lived in there before my mansion burned down anyway," Doc said. "I have occasionally wondered what the lottery numbers a year or two from now might be, but worry over the consequences of my actions has always stayed my hand."

"Except for wanting to know the outcomes of the next 25 World Series," Marty suddenly put in, smiling. "You seemed awfully excited about that when you were first planning on going to the future, Doc. Just a baseball buff – or were you sick of losing to Dad for six years in a row?"

"Er – well, all right, I did want to show George up," Doc confessed awkwardly. "I didn't think the outcome of a dollar bet would have any major effect on events. Of course, after you accidentally went back and nearly prevented your own existence, I rethought that plan. I didn't want any of my little bets to start a chain reaction that could cause a paradox and possibly end the universe."

"Could Dad having to give you a dollar really do that?"

"It's – highly unlikely, but considering our general luck in matters of time travel. . . ." Doc sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Some days I wonder what possessed me to invent that machine. It was _supposed_ to be something I could use for research and pleasure, and now. . . ."

_**Yeah, we see how well that worked out,**_ Albert agreed.

_**Albert, no! He'll kill the DeLorean if you keep talking like that!**_ Tommy cried.

_I can't _kill_ it, it's not sentient! And it's caused more trouble that it's worth!_

_**We heard it talk,**_ Tommy said stubbornly.

_That was a prerecorded voice! Do you really think a sentient machine would be so calm while plummeting out of the sky?_

_**Whatever the status of its sentience, you still spent thirty years working on it,**_ Verne said. _**Seems a waste to get rid of it after less than a year.**_

_Better to give up my life's work than destroy the universe,_ Doc thought firmly, though he couldn't help a tinge of regret sneaking in. For all that he was worried, Verne did have a point. . . .

"Back off with the kids?" Marty asked, poking him with the handle end of his fork.

Doc blinked, then nodded. "They're taking exception to the fact that I'm seriously considering dismantling the time machine once we get home."

Marty's jaw dropped. "Really? Wow, Doc, I – I gotta admit, I didn't expect that."

"Why not? I'm just as frustrated by our situation as you two are. And this whole mess proves how dangerous it is to have a time machine around. What if someone else stole the DeLorean? I don't want to have to fight off yet another paradox. Or possibly get stuck in an even less friendly time period."

Marty nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess. I just didn't think you'd give up something you worked so hard on so fast."

Doc felt another pang. "The safety of the universe has to come before my own scientific aspirations." He ripped into another piece of chicken. "Of course, this is all academic until we return to 1986. Let's focus on our most immediate concern – making 1885 liveable."

Saturday, July 4th

7:45 P.M.

_**Well, that wasn't as hard as we thought it would be.**_

"Not at all," Doc agreed, giving the now cleaned and straightened barn an approving look. "Good work, boys. We finished in about a third of the time I expected things to take."

_**Thank you, Father,**_ the tentacles chorused, winding around him.

_**Us being able to actually **_**do**_** some of the cleaning is probably what threw your calculations off,**_ Albert said. _**Either that or the fumes from the outhouse got to your brain.**_

_Ugh, don't remind me,_ Doc thought, wincing. While the blacksmith shop itself hadn't been as much of a disaster as the scientist had feared, the outhouse was every bit the terror first impressions had suggested. He, Marty, Chester, and Seamus had spent three good hours shoveling out manure and scrubbing the walls to make it useable again, punctuated every fifteen minutes with a break to recover from the stench. It had been a long, hard job – not helped by the chicken, who hadn't appreciated their efforts and had spent the time pecking and squawking at them until Marty had managed to snatch it and stuff it in a cage. Doc had made sure to give both bartender and farmer a substantial token of his appreciation at the end of the day. _I hope we get some work soon,_ he thought. _If I keep having to make payments like that, we'll be out of cash sooner than I anticipated._

_**I'm sure we will,**_ Jules said. _**Blacksmiths were fundamental to the workings of the pre-Industrial West society. I predict we will soon be swamped with orders, especially in light of the lack of a good smith previous to our arrival.**_

_**Good thing we're around to help you with all the work, eh?**_ Tommy said teasingly, rubbing his claw against Doc's arm.

_I'm very lucky,_ Doc smiled, patting him.

_**Enough talk,**_ Albert declared, pointing his claw toward the sky like a stabbing finger. _**I say it's time we took care of that damn chicken.**_

"Right," Doc said aloud, turning to the cage Marty had previously shoved into the corner while they took care of the stables. The chicken was huddled in a corner, looking as nervous as a chicken could look. Doc strode over and knelt before it, scowling fiercely. "Not much meat on her," he noted. "But I think with a generous helping of sides, she'll make a fine meal." He yanked open the door and reached inside.

To his surprise, the chicken didn't even try to peck at him. It just sat limply in his hand, not struggling in the least. Doc frowned. Did it somehow know what was in store? "No fight left?" he asked it.

The chicken looked up at him almost piteously. "Bwa-caw?"

A twinge of guilt poked at Doc's insides. Sure, the chicken had completely ruined their outhouse, but – she was only a chicken. It wasn't her fault she'd been left to fend for herself. Where else was she supposed to go? Not to mention she was so very thin. . . .

_**She's – she's kinda cute,**_ Tommy admitted hesitantly. _**For a chicken.**_

_**She could lay eggs for us,**_ Jules said, clacking his pincer. _**That might be more useful than just killing her outright.**_

_**Do you really think you **_**could**_** kill her?**_ Verne added. _**You've mentioned before you're a bit squeamish around blood. . . .**_

_**No! No, we mustn't waver!**_ Albert said, though even he was starting to sound reluctant. _**Remember the mess! Remember the **_**smell**_**!**_

"Right!" Doc nodded, gritting his teeth. He glared hard at the hen, who stared back. "You made our first day here a nightmare! What do you have to say for yourself?"

The chicken tilted its head. "Bwak?"

Five minutes later, when Marty and Jennifer returned from examining the horse paddock for weeds (or so they had claimed when they'd walked out arm in arm), they were greeted with the sight of the chicken happily taking a bath in a tub Doc had found. Marty stared at it a moment, then at Doc. "So. . . ."

Doc looked away, as did the tentacles. "I – like eggs," he defended himself weakly.

Marty rolled his eyes. "Sheesh, Doc. You can dangle Biff 30 stories in the air, but you can't kill a single chicken?"

Jennifer, however, was snickering. "You all are just big softies, aren't you? At least if it's not named Tannen."

Doc blushed as the tentacles made half-hearted noises of protest. "You have to admit, she wouldn't make a good meal," he said, trying to come up with a better explanation for his moment of weakness. "She's not much more than skin and bones. Jules suggested to me that she'd make a better egg-layer – you did!" he added as the tentacle in question swivelled its claw toward him in a distinct "leave me out of this!" gesture.

_**At least I didn't say it was "cute," **_Jules replied, poking at his brother.

_**She is! **_Tommy protested._** When she's not covered in poop, anyway.**_

"Look, not even Albert could go through with it, and he was the one who originally suggested putting her in the stove," Doc continued, shaking his head. "What was I supposed to do?"

Marty looked at the chicken, who clucked and splashed more water on herself. "Oh, whatever you say, Doc," he said, waving a hand. "Just keep her out of the outhouse, okay?"

"The day I let her back in there is the day I've officially lost my mind." The chicken hopped out of the tub and shook itself off. "All done? All right, back in you go." He shooed the hen back into its cage and locked it up tight. "Come on, we can get another meal at the Palace," he added to the teens. "If you really want chicken again, I'm sure it's available."

"Fine by me," Marty said. "See ya later – Cynthia."

"Ba-caw."


	4. First Day Of Work

Chapter 4

Sunday, July 5th, 1885

Hill Valley

7:52 A.M.

BANG! BANG! BANG! "Hello? Blacksmith?"

Doc jerked awake, blinking rapidly as the pounding repeated itself. _**I think we have our first customer, Father,**_ Jules said.

_I think so too,_ Doc thought, turning. _We'd better see–_

His forehead collided with the top of the DeLorean door frame. "_Ow_! Shit!"

Marty's head popped up from the bed. "Doc? You okay?"

"Everything all right in there?" the voice outside asked, sounding concerned.

"Just hit my head," Doc said, rubbing the injured spot. "Damn it. . .I'll be there in a minute!" he called to the visitor. He hurriedly clambered out of the DeLorean, making sure to duck this time.

Marty blinked, running his fingers through his disheveled hair. "You slept in the DeLorean?" he asked quietly as Doc passed.

"You and Jennifer had already taken the bed by the time I got back with it last night," Doc said, grabbing his coat as the tentacles covered the car with a cloth. "Speaking of which, you'd better get up. If anyone sees you in the same bed as your 'fiancee,' you're going to have a lot of trouble from the more polite members of this society."

"It's not like we're doing anything," Marty complained, though he obligingly threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"They don't know that, and they wouldn't care if they did. Just the suggestion of 'improper acts' is bad enough." Doc threw on his coat, the tentacles retracting beneath it. "Just try and make yourself look presentable, kid." Leaving Marty to rub the sleep from his eyes, he opened the door.

A well-tanned man with a sleazy-looking mustache grinned at him. "Well, hello there! You're the new blacksmith, right? They told me it was an older fellow trying his luck."

"That would be me," Doc confirmed, holding out a hand. "I'm Emmett Wayne."

The man grabbed it and pumped it enthusiastically. "Name's Joe Statler. I own the horse stables over here. I'm really glad to meet you, Mr. Wayne. My horses need a good shoeing."

"I'm sure," Doc said, extracting his hand from Statler's grip with a smile. The salesman's presence was oddly comforting. He didn't seem much different from the John Statler who'd sold him the DeLorean back home. _No wonder the family stays in the transportation business for so long. It appears they're all genetically predisposed to becoming used car salesmen_.

Statler nodded, all cheerfulness. "Yes, it's been a while since they've had a proper one. I've been visiting a man over in Grass Valley for all my work, but he hardly gets the nails in straight. Now, I know it isn't usually proper for a man to be working on Sunday, but I really do need your services today – and anyway, Reverend Warwick says he hasn't seen you yet, and he tries to get to know all his parishioners before they arrive for their first day at service." His smile lessened. "Did you just get up?"

Doc mentally kicked himself. After that little speech he'd just given Marty about "respectability" and not letting people think ill of them. . . . _Is the universe just determined to make me look like a hypocrite?_ "Unfortunately, yes," he admitted. "I meant to wake earlier, get my services out there, it was just such a long night settling in–"

"Oh, don't worry – I heard all about your – er – chicken problem," Statler cut in, flushing a little. "Warwick can track you down later. I'm sure you'll be in the swing of things in no time." He clapped his hands, that brilliant grin back in place. "Now then, Mr. Wayne, since I'm your first customer, how 'bout we have us a deal? I mean, they do say you're new at this."

Doc frowned. "Not really new. . . ."

"New enough. I'm sure we can come to an equitable arrangement about price and suchlike."

_**Psst – see if he's willing to trade some horses for the work,**_ Verne whispered.

_Good thinking! _"Actually, we _could_ use some horses of our own," he told Statler, leaning against the doorframe. "Ours disappeared with the rest of our belongings."

"Oh, not a problem at all, Mr. Wayne," Statler said, eyes glittering. "I can set you up with some mighty fine ones. Statler only deals in the best!"

Doc nodded. "So – a discount on the shoeing in exchange for the same on three horses?"

Statler grabbed his hand, giving it another almost violent shake. "You've got yourself a deal. I'll start bringing my current lot on over. And if you see any you like, just give me a holler." He touched the brim of his hat, then spun around and headed back up the street, whistling.

Marty snorted as Doc closed the door. "Guess those guys don't ever change," he commented, grabbing his serape. "Hell, they even keep with the whole 'J' thing."

"Probably just runs in the family," Doc shrugged. "I did get a good deal on my previous cars from his descendant. Let's hope the ancestor is just as accommodating."

**I**_** just hope saddles are more comfortable than bicycle seats,**_ Tommy said. _**I wasn't too impressed by the bicycle we bought back in 1955.**_

_I'm sure they are – and even if they're not, I'll live._ Doc glanced over to the bed to see Jennifer finally starting to rise. "Good morning. How did you sleep?"

"All right," Jennifer yawned, getting to her feet.

"Probably better than you," Marty said, tossing her a dress. "You could have asked us to move, you know."

"Oh, I didn't want to disturb you. Besides, I was busy examining the circuitry for a good portion of the night – exhaustion just caught up with me before I knew it." Doc gave him a playful smirk. "Besides, handing over the bed is a small price to pay to see you up and coherent at 8 o'clock in the morning."

The tentacles buzzed as Marty rolled his eyes. "Trust me, Doc, it only looks that way," he retorted. "I'll walk and talk, but you won't get much else until at least 9."

"I can work with that. Now come on you two, up and at 'em. We've got our first order to fill."

"Really? That was fast," Jennifer commented, stretching. "Who is it?"

"Joe Statler and his horses. I do some shoeing, he gives us some transportation." He frowned as a thought came to him. "Do either of you know how to ride?"

"A little," Marty said. "I went to a summer camp once where they gave lessons. Was way before I met you, though."

"There was that summer at the Shaw ranch too," Jennifer said, smoothing out her skirts before approaching Marty with a smile. "Sophomore year? The place where we learned archery?"

"Oh, yeah." Marty grinned devilishly and embraced her. "I have to admit, I don't remember much of the lesson."

"I know," Jennifer giggled, squirming as Marty nuzzled her neck.

Doc rolled his eyes. "Teenagers. . . ."

_**Not that they're not silly, but weren't you the same way at their age?**_ Verne asked.

_Not really. I spent most of my teenage years reading science fiction novels and working on inventions. Not that I ignored girls, but. . . ._ He sighed. _They certainly ignored me._

_**You've never had a girlfriend?**_ Albert said, surprised.

_Actually, I've had two girlfriends – and been dumped by both. One right after I'd been disowned by my father for wanting to be a scientist, and the other after I wouldn't cooperate with her father on a project that didn't interest me. And the second turned out to have been cheating on me with my worst enemy the whole time. _Doc looked over at Marty and Jennifer, who were still snuggling. _To be honest, I've always been a smidgen jealous of those two in that respect. I don't begrudge them their happiness, of course – they're obviously meant for each other, from everything I've seen. But – you four know how much I wanted a family. And while I'm very happy to have all of you in my life, part of me. . .well, man doesn't live by science alone._

Verne rubbed against his hand. _**Poor Father.**_

_No, it's all right,_ Doc reassured him. _I made my peace with bachelorhood a long time ago. I'm truly content with the way my life's turned out._

_**Apart from being stuck in the past,**_ Albert qualified.

Doc let out a chuckle. _Yes. Though even then, there's far worse places to be stuck than the Old West._

Joe Statler returned as the group was preparing to find breakfast, leading a string of five horses. "Here we are! And there's the other two I've heard about," he added, looking at Marty and Jennifer. "Joe Statler – you're Mr. Eastwood and Miss Streisand?"

"That's us," Marty said with a nod. "Good to meet you, Mr. Statler."

"Same," Jennifer said, offering her hand and trying not to wince as Statler nearly pumped it off her shoulder. "We're very glad to be here."

"We're glad to have you here! Life just hasn't been the same without a good blacksmith around." He waved a hand at the horses. "Now, I figured I'd start you off light since you've only just got here. You can have these for the day, and then we'll start in on the next string." Statler shook a finger at Doc, suddenly stern. "And I don't care how new you are to this business, Mr. Wayne – you'd better do a good job. My customers look for quality."

"I'll do the best job possible, Mr. Statler," Doc promised.

The smile returned, bright as the sun. "All right then, Mr. Wayne. I'm counting on you!"

"I won't let you down."

Jennifer timidly approached the lead horse, a dark grey rather taller than her. "None of them bite, do they?" Jennifer asked, taking a step back as the horse eyed her.

"Not a chance! These are some of the sweetest-tempered horses in the West!" Statler patted the horse on its nose as it whickered. "You're perfectly safe, Miss Streisand."

Marty went down the line and held out a hand to a chestnut. It sniffed his fingers, then gently lipped them. "Hey, careful, I need those," Marty said, pulling back.

The chestnut whinnied. "I think she likes you," Statler said, eyes predatory. "If you want to take her, I can give you a great price."

"Let's see what happens over the next couple of days," Doc said, holding up a hand. "Thank you, Mr. Statler. I'll get started right away."

"Much obliged, Mr. Wayne." Statler tipped his hat. "Pleasure doing business with you." He exited the shop with a wave. "See you tomorrow! Remember, quality!"

"Right! Til tomorrow!"

_**Is it safe to come out?**_ Verne asked, squirming slightly under Doc's coat.

"Hold on. Marty, Jennifer, can you help me get this lot in the paddock?"

"No problem, Doc." The three rounded up the string and led them to the pen in the back. Most of the animals went fairly quietly, sniffing and snorting as they looked around. The chestnut, however, persisted in following Marty everywhere, lipping at his clothes and hands. "What?" Marty finally demanded of it. "Do I smell like hay?"

"I don't know," Doc said, fighting back a smile. "She certainly does seem to like you."

"I think you should take her, Marty," Jennifer said, patting the horse's neck. "She seems so sweet!"

"Maybe to you," Marty retorted, pulling his sleeve out of the horse's mouth. "She isn't trying to eat _your_ clothes. Come on, horse, I'm not edible!"

The chestnut kept being affectionate, bumping its head against his shoulder. Marty let out a put-upon sigh. "You're not a cat you know. Or a big dog."

Doc laughed. "Just be grateful she isn't humping your leg."

The look on Marty's face was absolutely priceless. "Holy shit – did you really just say that!?"

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," Doc confessed, snickering wildly. "Here, I'll distract her so we can get back inside." He gave the chestnut a few slaps on the rump. "Come on, girl, leave Marty alone."

The chestnut turned its head to see what Doc was up to. Marty promptly bolted out of the pen and back into the shop. After making sure the other horses were settled in properly, Doc and Jennifer followed, leading a chocolate-colored one into the main smithing area. "Our first customer," Doc said, patting it on the neck. "Let's see how things go. All right, boys, you can come out – but _slowly_. We don't want to spook the poor thing and ruin my reputation before I even have a chance to build it."

_**Oh, yes,**_ Jules said, peeking his claw out at the animal. It eyed him in a rather suspicious manner. _**Our snake-like shape does stand a good chance of frightening them a little, doesn't it?**_

_**A **_**little**_**?**_ Albert echoed, a hint of sarcasm on the words.

"I'm sure we can avoid disaster if we're careful," Doc said. "Easy now. . . ."

_**Don't worry, Father,**_ Tommy said reassuringly as the tentacles inched out from under his coat. _**Even if the horse does panic, I think we can handle him.**_

_**We can lift and carry the DeLorean easily. A horse would not be a problem,**_ Jules confirmed.

_**Yes, but the DeLorean doesn't feel pain,**_ Verne pointed out. _**We can't send the horses back all bruised and scratched. It would lower their value, and Mr. Statler would refuse to pay us.**_

_**He could get into the used horse business,**_ Tommy joked. _**'There's been some slight wear and tear on this model, ma'am, but she still runs great.'**_

Doc chuckled. "I don't think the used horse business would be as profitable as the used car business," he commented, as the horse let out a worried-sounding whinny. He patted it on the nose to try and calm it. "So if we do have to restrain it, be as gentle as possible."

_**Of course, Father,**_ the tentacles chorused.

The horse continued to eye the tentacles as they slithered out, but fortunately didn't try to bolt. "Shhh. Relax, boy," Doc said soothingly, moving over to rub the animal's side. "They won't hurt you. I promise."

Tommy slipped forward to look at the hooves. _**How do we get him to lift his foot?**_

"Let me try." Doc knelt down by the horse's front leg and carefully began trying to lift it. "Come on, boy, up and at 'em," he coaxed. "Good boy, good boy. . . ."

Finally, the horse lifted its leg. The tentacles investigated the hoof. _**Kind of dirty,**_ Albert commented.

"A good cleaning should be our first step," Doc nodded. "There should be a hoof pick in with the other tools."

"I got it," Marty volunteered, heading for the rack. After a bit of rooting around, he located the pick and passed it over. "You're good at this stuff," he added as he watched Doc take care of the foot.

"Thanks," Doc said. "I suppose it's a bit like riding a bicycle. You don't ever really forget." He finished the cleaning and wiped the pick on his pants. "All right, boys, get a measurement and grab some metal."

Jules measured as Albert fetched a small length of iron. The horse whinnied anxiously, trying to pull away. "There, there, it's all right," Doc said, patting its flank. Glancing over at Marty and Jennifer, he said, "Can one of you run down to the general store and see if they have any apples or sugar lumps? This process might go easier if I can bribe the animals to stay still."

"Yeah, and it might make that chestnut stop trying to chew on my clothes," Marty said. "Just hand over the money and I'll run right down."

Verne pulled a wad from Doc's pocket and handed it to the teen. "Thanks. You want to come with me, Jen?"

"Sure," Jennifer said. "I don't think I need to stick around. See you in a minute, Doc."

"Right. Bye." Doc focused back on the task at hand as the pair left. "All set, Jules?"

_**Yes,**_ Jules said, clacking his claw. _**Let's get to work. We need a U about four inches wide. . . .**_

Albert and Verne began bending and shaping the iron to Jules's specifications while Doc concentrated on keeping the horse calm. Tommy hefted the hammer and waved it around. _**Should I bang a few times on the anvil to make it sound like you're doing something?**_

_**Actually, Tommy, you'll get to bang it for real,**_ Jules said as Verne and Albert finished their sculpting. _**We need to flatten this iron.**_

_**All righty then!**_ Tommy happily started banging away on the crude shoe.

"Be careful – you don't want to make it uneven," Doc cautioned.

_**Don't worry, I won't.**_

_**We'll double-check his work, **_Verne assured Doc.

After Tommy finished flattening the metal, the tentacles refined the shape of the shoe, got the holes for the nails ready, then started on the next one. Marty and Jennifer reappeared as Tommy was banging on shoe #3, carrying a bag of apples. "Here you go, Doc! Horse bribes aplenty!"

"Thanks." Doc glanced up to see Jennifer munching on some sort of pastry. "Oh – get yourself a snack while you were out?"

"Sort of," Jennifer said, swallowing. "Wife of the owner gave it to me."

"Yeah – while we were looking for apples, it hit me – today's Jennifer's birthday!" Marty said. "I mean, I know _technically_ she's not getting any older, 'cause we're all out of sync and stuff, but hell, so long as the date's right on the calendar. . ."

"And when Marty said that, the lady who was helping us wouldn't let us leave without giving me something," Jennifer continued, finishing off the treat and wiping her hands. "Happy birthday to me, I guess."

"That's right – I was actually thinking about that the other day," Doc confessed. "Then I got distracted by everything we had to do, and. . . ." He shrugged. "Still, happy technical birthday, Jennifer." The tentacles nodded along, cheeping and clicking.

Jennifer laughed. "Thanks, guys. Though don't feel bad about forgetting – _I_ didn't put it together until Marty mentioned it. I was still thinking of it as a few months off because of what the month is back home." She shook her head. "Imagine that, a birthday where you _don't_ get older."

Doc smirked. "Well, to be truly accurate, you _are_ older. It's just in a smaller increment than usual for a birthday – a day instead of a year. And if we stay here long enough, you and Marty will reach the point where you will have aged a full year. It just won't fall on the traditional day."

Marty and Jennifer looked at him, then at each other with rather bewildered expressions. "What do you mean, Doc?" Marty asked.

"Did you think time spent outside your natural temporal period didn't count? Time travel has no effect on the aging process except in really bad science fiction. When figuring out your ages, we have to account for not only the time spent in 1986 proper, but also the time spent in 2015, 1986-A, and 1955. Jumping around like that may not have any effect on the calendar, but it still registers in your body."

"So we're all a couple of days older now?" Marty said, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

"Yes – though you also have to figure in the week you originally spent in 1955, and I have to factor in my various short time trips."

"Freaky." Marty suddenly frowned. "Hey, wait, does this mean we also die earlier now?"

"I'm afraid so," Doc sighed. "It's one of the downsides of time travel. Fortunately for all of us, rejuvenation technology can restore those lost days."

"Eh – I still don't like it," Marty admitted. "It's hard enough being stuck in the past without considering how I'm gonna hit 18 and not even realize it."

"Sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it. If there was, I would."

"It's all right, Doc," Jennifer assured him. "We know it's not your–"

Out of nowhere, she paled. "Wait. . .Doc, does this sort of thing affect _everything_ in the body?"

Doc blinked, puzzled at the anxiety in her voice. "Er – yes, I suppose so. I know it can certainly play havoc with sleep schedules." He frowned, concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"A little. . . ."

"What is it, Jen?" Marty asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"It's – uh – girl stuff," Jennifer said, fidgeting and refusing to look either of them in the eye.

"Girl stuff?" Marty repeated.

"Well. . .you guys both have sisters. . .you know what happens – every month. . . ."

It clicked in both Doc and Marty's heads at the same time. "OH! Oh, shit," Marty said, now rather pale himself. "How the hell – what did they even _do_ back – now?"

"I don't know, but I think I'd better find out," Jennifer said, in a tone that said she would have rather crawled on her bare hands and knees through hot coals. "Especially if it's going to sneak up on me early thanks to all this jumping around in time."

"Yes, you do that," Doc said, feeling more awkward than he had in a long while. "I'd – er – offer to help you find a solution, but–"

"Not necessary, Doc," Jennifer told him hastily, waving her hands. "I'll figure something out on my own. I know how this is for guys."

_**What are you guys talking about?**_ Tommy asked, confused.

_**And why is it making everyone so uncomfortable?**_ Verne added.

_Oh God – nothing that would ever concern you, trust me._

_**But – **_

_Please, _please_ just go back to making horseshoes! I'll – explain later!_

A heavy silence hung in the barn for a moment as everyone avoided looking at each other. Then Jules held up the horseshoes for inspection. _**So – ah – is this acceptable, Father?**_

"Yes," Doc said, glad to be back on the topic of blacksmithing. "They look typical of all the shoes I've seen, anyway."

_**Not too thin?**_ Tommy asked, sounding nervous despite himself.

"I don't think so. Now to see how well it fits. Marty, could you hand me an apple?"

"I don't know how fresh they are," Marty admitted as he tossed one of the fruits to Doc. "The people at the store told me some farmer brought 'em in earlier, but I don't know how long ago was 'earlier.'"

"That's all right. I doubt the horse cares." Doc caught the apple and offered it to the chocolate, who was still fidgeting. The horse lipped it, then gobbled it down, looking a little calmer. Doc patted its neck. "There. Now, let's get your leg up. . . ."

After a minute, he managed to get the horse to lift its foot again. The tentacles held the shoe against the hoof. _**Look at that – a perfect match!**_ Verne said proudly.

_**Now we just have to convince the horse to let us hammer it on,**_ Albert said.

"We have treats now – we should be fine," Doc said, taking another apple as the horse finished off the first one. "And the horse won't feel a thing if we do it right. Grab some nails and give it a whirl. Just remember, go easy."

The tentacles nodded and fetched the appropriate tools. Tommy kept his grip on the hammer while Verne positioned the nails and Jules held the shoe on. The teenagers watched curiously as the nailing begain. "I know the hoof's like a big toenail for horses, but I still feel like the horse should be putting up more of a fuss," Jennifer commented. "I would if someone nailed something onto my feet."

"Don't give him any ideas, Jennifer," Doc said, checking the tentacles' work. "Good job kids. Now the other foot. . . ." He coaxed the chocolate horse into lifting the other front leg. "I really hope none of the other horses prove skittish. It's hard enough dealing with a relatively calm one."

The chocolate snorted and tossed its head. Doc gave it a look. "Don't start, or you won't get any more apples."

"Remember to save some for the other horses, Doc," Marty said with a half-smile.

"I will if he'll let me."

Luckily, the realization that if he behaved himself he would get food left the chocolate very well-behaved from that point on, standing quite still as the tentacles finished the other three feet. Doc rewarded the horse with another apple as he stood up and dusted himself off. "Well," he said, grinning at the tentacles, "it appears we'll be able to pull this off."

_**I like using the hammer,**_ Tommy said, waving the tool around. _**Can we do another one?**_

"Be careful with that thing," Doc cautioned, ducking as the hammer came a bit close to his head. "But yes, let's get Marty's friend the chestnut out of the way. Then we'll take a quick break for breakfast proper before starting on the others."

The chestnut turned out to be very easy to shoe – as long as Marty was around, it didn't even seem to notice the tentacles. It neighed piteously as they put it back out to pasture, gazing at him with big soulful eyes. "I think you have a co-dependent horse," Jennifer said, trying and failing to hide her grin.

"Tell me about it," Marty grumbled, giving the horse a dirty look. "What's so special about me, huh?"

The chestnut whickered and tried to nuzzle Marty's armpit. "It really must be something she smells on you – though why it isn't affecting the other horses is beyond me," Doc admitted, smirking. "We can ask Mr. Statler about it when we see him again." He gave the chestnut an apple to distract her from Marty. "Now, who's up for some food?"

Sunday, July 5th

4:21 P.M.

"All right, kids – ready?"

_**Ready,**_the four tentacles chorused. Doc nodded, then turned to the hoverboard, a knife in hand. He was just inserting it into the almost-invisible crack between the riding surface and hovering surface –

when there was a knock at the door. "Mr. Wayne?"

Jules snatched the board and slid it under the covered DeLorean while the other tentacles shot under Doc's coat. "Just a moment!" Doc called, dropping the knife onto a nearby table and turning in a circle to make sure everything temporally-inappropriate was properly covered. Satisfied there would be no awkward questions to answer on that front, he opened the door. "Hello, Mr. Statler. Come to check on the horses?"

Statler gave Doc a megawatt grin. "That's right. Everyone says you've been pretty busy on the anvil, from what they hear. I just thought I'd see if you had maybe one or two done so I could take a look at the work."

Doc returned the man's smile. "As a matter of fact, I've finished the entire string."

Statler's eyes went wide. "Really?" he said, surprised. "I would have thought a man new to the trade would need more than just a day!"

Doc couldn't help a smirk. "I told you I wasn't all _that_ new to it," he said. "Though I welcome your expert eye in checking over my work."

"Let's have a look then!" Statler proclaimed, muscling around him.

Doc resisted rolling his eyes and instead just led the salesman out to the paddock. The horses were quietly grazing, only glancing up when the two men entered. Statler selected a horse at random and knelt down, carefully examining each hoof. Doc held his breath, the tentacles tensing under his coat.

Finally, Statler looked up, beaming. "Well – you've been selling yourself short, haven't you? You've got a real knack for this work, Mr. Wayne! These are some mighty fine shoes. And I've rarely seen nails driven in that straight. Looks like we were all wrong about an older man taking on the job."

Doe released the breath and smirked again as the tentacles relaxed. "Good to hear. So, I can expect further business?"

"Of course! I'll bring over another string of horses first thing tomorrow!"

"Excellent! Now, about payment. . . ."

Marty and Jennifer appeared on the scene just then, looking a little rumpled. They'd thrown out an excuse earlier about wanting a better look around the town square, but Doc suspected they'd really just wanted to find a quiet corner to "celebrate" Jennifer's birthday as much as they dared. "Hey Doc – oh, hello Mr. Statler," Marty said. "Come to get your horses back?"

"Yep. Your uncle here is one hell of a blacksmith – er, if you'll excuse the language, miss," Statler added, looking a little embarrassed as he spotted Jennifer.

Jennifer chuckled, smoothing out her skirt. "It's all right, Mr. Statler. I heard a lot worse while we were in the circus."

The chestnut whinnied upon spotting Marty and went up to nuzzle the teen. "Hi," Marty said dully, resigned to the glut of horsey affection. "Miss me?"

Joe laughed. "She's certainly taken a liking to you, hasn't she?"

"Yeah, she has. I'm starting to think she's got some sort of crush on me."

"Crushing you seems to be the last thing on her mind, given how sweet she's treating you," Statler said, looking momentarily confused. "Unless she's been making a nuisance of herself to Miss Streisand. . . ."

"No, she's been good," Jennifer said, patting the horse's mane. The chestnut let out a happy-sounding whicker. "She seems to like me all right."

"I haven't noticed any explicitly negative reactions to my presence either," Doc added.

_**To be fair, we haven't been around her when Marty isn't there to distract her,**_ Verne pointed out.

_She still seems pretty sweet-tempered in general to me – and I doubt Joe Statler cares about scientific accuracy._

Statler blinked a few times. "For a circus boy turned blacksmith, you sure can turn a phrase."

Doc frowned. "Just because I've entered some rather unusual professions doesn't mean I'm uneducated. I studied ph – science at an Eastern college."

"Really? How'd you get into the circus life then? Shouldn't you be working with those inventor fellows back East?"

"I did, but I craved fresh air and adventure. It helped that I already had family in the business," Doc lied smoothly, nodding at Marty. "I didn't actually perform – as I may have mentioned, my main job was tending to the wagons."

"Oh, yeah, I've heard a bit about that from the folks down at the saloon. Guess that's the reason you're so good at this straight-off."

Doc grinned as the tentacles let out a few internal chuckles. "It's a gift."

"Must be," Statler agreed, giving the horse's hooves another admiring look. "So what made you decide to come to Hill Valley?"

"Finally got sick of show business and a life on the road," Doc shrugged. "Coming here in specific was more or less an accident, though – we lost our wagon and most of our possessions in an attack by desperados, and this was the closest piece of civilization we could find. So far, though, I'm glad we ended up in this town."

"As you should be! You won't find a nicer little town anywhere in California!" Statler said, bursting with civic pride. "And with work like this, I'm hoping you'll stay a long time."

Guilt stabbed at Doc's insides at that. Oh damn – he hadn't given too much thought to how his efforts at the job would affect the populace. And the way Mr. Statler was grinning at him, so open and friendly. . ._ I hate to say this, but we may want to lower the quality of our work a little, kids,_ he thought. _I don't want them to miss me once the DeLorean's fixed. I was kind of hoping they wouldn't remember me at all, actually._

_**I don't think that's possible, Father,**_ Jules told him. _**No matter what, we're going to affect people in this time period. And the strong first impression we gave them, what with showing up so oddly dressed and ticking off Buford Tannen and dealing with Cynthia and the outhouse, will probably guarantee that they'll remember us.**_

_**At least all the attention is positive,**_ Verne added.

_**Yeah,**_ Tommy agreed. _**Not 'YAAAH OCTOPUS MAN KILL IT!'**_

Doc smiled weakly. _Yes, true enough. Maybe we should try for friendly but reclusive._

_**Just like back home in 1986?**_ Albert asked.

_Sort of. I just can't risk any potentially time-altering relationships back here._ He gave Statler a slight nod. "We'll see what happens. I don't have any intentions of moving on just yet."

Statler nodded back. "Good, good." He glanced over at Marty. "I know I'm being a busybody, but I'm sure folks other than me are wondering – how about you and Miss Streisand? Oh, I know you're old enough to be on your own, but didn't your ma and pa have anything to say about you running off with your uncle?"

Marty shook his head and lowered his eyes. "They might have, sir, but they've been dead for a couple of years."

Statler's smile instantly vanished. "Oh, I see. I'm sorry."

"It was a while ago," Marty said, putting on a brave face. "Trapeze accident. One minute they were flying through the air, then there was a snap, and – well, I'm sure you can guess what happened next."

Statler nodded solemnly. "Awful way to go. I'm sure the Lord's taking care of them now." His eyes flicked over to Jennifer. "And you, Miss Streisand? Not many parents who'd let just an engaged girl run off with her love. Are – are you an orphan too?"

"Yes, though I never knew my parents at all," Jennifer said, following Marty's lead. "I grew up under the care of the ringmaster. When I fell in love with Marty, I decided to follow him and Doc." She twiddled her fingers. "I know it's not exactly proper for me to be making a home with two unrelated men, but I wouldn't feel comfortable living on my own, or in a stranger's house."

"Well, I suppose that's to be expected," Statler allowed. "I'm sure Mr. Wayne here does a fine job of taking care of you two youngsters."

"The best," Marty nodded, giving Doc a warm smile.

Doc returned it. "I try." He turned back to Statler, serious again. "However, we've gotten rather sidetracked. How did you want to handle payment?"

"That depends on whether or not you want to buy any of the horses," Statler said, still looking at Marty. "Any interest in keeping that chestnut, Mr. Eastwood?"

Marty looked over at the horse, who was still nuzzling his side. "Yeah, I guess," he sighed, patting the horse's nose and getting a cheerful whicker. "If she likes me that much. . . ."

"You really are just a big softy," Jennifer teased him, earning herself a look.

"All right then, horse like her is worth about $70. Miss Streisand, Mr. Wayne, you see any you'd like to have?"

Doc and Jennifer examined the remaining four animals. "Not really," Doc admitted as Jennifer shook her head. "Maybe in the next batch." He put a hand in his pocket and extracted his wallet, frowning into it. "$70. . .I must confess, I'm starting to look a little thin here. . . ."

"Well, we still have the shoeing jobs to consider," Statler said, taking out his own wallet. "I've got to pay you too." He grinned again. "Unless you just want to trade a day's work for the horse?"

That did sound like a good deal – but Doc couldn't help feeling a smidgen suspicious. He wasn't sure what the exact price of a shoeing back here was, but – Statler seemed to be acting just a bit _too_ friendly. Doc felt somewhat guilty for not trusting him, but he didn't want to be cheated his first day on the job. No sense in setting a bad precedent. "Five shoeing jobs is equal to one horse?" he said, folding his arms.

"Well – maybe a bit over," Statler confessed, pulling out a couple of bills from his wallet.

That was more like it. "Fair enough," Doc said, accepting the money. "We'll see you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early," Statler nodded. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wayne."

"Likewise." The two men shook hands, then Statler rounded up the four horses that were returning and led them back toward his own paddock. "I have to say, that went pretty well," Doc commented, leaning on the fence as they watched the string leave. "Hopefully the next group will be as easy as that one."

_**As long as we have plenty of apples, we should be okay,**_ was Tommy's opinion.

Jennifer rubbed the chestnut's nose. "So, Marty, what are you gonna name your new girlfriend?" she joked.

Marty rolled his eyes. "Well, you definitely killed any chance of her being named 'Jennifer' there."

"Good. Romantic as some people might think that is, I think it would just get confusing. Seriously, though, any ideas?"

"I dunno," Marty shrugged. "I thought I was going to end up with a _male_ horse. I was planning on something like Tom or Huey – you know, after Tom Petty or Huey Lewis?" He thought for a moment, looking over the horse. "I guess I could call her Joan, after Joan Jett. . . ."

"I like it." Jennifer patted the chestnut's neck. "What do you think, girl?"

The horse snorted and shook her head. Moments later, a quite different noise emerged from her hindquarters. "Whew!" Jennifer cried, jumping back and holding her nose. "I think she wants something different, Marty!"

"Tough," Marty said, shielding his face from the fumes. "She wants to chew my clothes and follow me around like a lovesick puppy, she can get used to Joan."

Doc laughed even as he pressed a protective hand over his face. "Let's hope she does so sooner rather than later. I don't think our shop will survive many more protests like that."

_**Speaking of money-earning ventures, how much money do we have on us at the moment, Father?**_ Albert asked. _**You said before we were looking thin.**_

"I may have been exaggerating a bit – just to keep Statler from pulling anything," Doc confessed, glancing back into his wallet. "We've still got about a hundred or so. That goes pretty far in this era. _And_ we have a guarantee of future business from Joe. Mind you, we'd better find out what the old blacksmith charged for his work before the day's out. The last thing any of us need is someone else trying what our horse dealer tried."

_**Very true,**_ Jules said. _**Still, I'd rate this as a good day.**_

"Me too." Doc pulled Marty and Jennifer close. "You know, I think we're actually going to make it back here."

"Me too," Marty said, giving Doc a squeeze.

"Me three," Jennifer smiled. "Though I'd still like to get back to the world of indoor toilets and proper hygiene before too long."

"Same here. Come on, kids, let's get back to work dissecting that hoverboard."


	5. Happy Technical Birthday

Chapter 5

Sunday, July 19th, 1885

Hill Valley

6:29 A.M.

_**Father, time to wake up.**_

Doc reluctantly opened his eyes at Jules's mental poke. "Mmph," he mumbled, sitting up and stretching. "It's too early."

_**On the contrary – it is your customary waking time of 6:29 and 48 seconds. You were simply up too late the night before.**_

_**Besides, you know you don't want to oversleep today,**_ Verne added. _**It's special!**_

Doc grinned and nodded, wiping the last of the sleep from his eyes."Quite right, Vernie." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, scrubbing his hair with his fingers. "Let's get cracking. We have a lot to do today."

_**Should we wake Marty and Jennifer?**_ Albert asked.

Doc glanced to his left. The teens were on their new cot, snuggled up against each other. He shook his head. _Not today. They can sleep in a bit. I certainly don't want them underfoot while I set up everything._

_**Good point. Though on that subject, do we **_**have**_** everything?**_

_**Everything is just two things, Albert,**_ Verne reminded him.

_I still need to get the cake, but Mrs. Anderson promised me it would be ready today,_ Doc thought, grabbing his coat and heading outside to the crude shower stall he'd set up near the outhouse. It wasn't much, just a leaky bucket for a shower head and a tub to keep his feet clean, and the "showers" it provided were always on the cold side, but it served its purpose as the best alternative to bathing in public (or not bathing at all, as some of his fellow citizens seemed to favor). _And his present is 99.9% completed. Just needs some last-minute fine-tuning._

_**Do you think Marty will like it?**_ Tommy asked.

_I certainly hope so! We spent a lot of time on it! Not to mention how lucky we were to even get our hands on the damn thing._

_**I'm sure he'll like it,**_ Jules reassured him. _**It's something we know he's been missing – even if it's not in precisely the same form as he's used to.**_

_**Exactly,**_ Verne said with a nod. _**He'll love it.**_

They took care of business in the outhouse (which was a lot easier to bear now that the last of the chicken stench had drifted away), then it was into the shower. Doc stripped while the tentacles readied the buckets and pulley system that made up the actual "shower" part. _How's the water, kids? _Doc asked as he stood underneath.

_**I'd estimate about 52.7 degrees Fahrenheit,**_ Jules said. _**Better than usual.**_

_Good. _Doc closed his eyes as the tentacles tugged on the rope. The water splashed from the storage bucket into the shower head bucket, where it proceeded to trickle out over the scientist. Doc washed quickly, knowing from experience that if he didn't hurry, the water would run out and he'd be left covered in soap suds. He sighed softly as he watched the ground around the tub turn into thick mud. He didn't make as much fuss about it as Marty and Jennifer, but still – what he wouldn't give to have a proper bathroom with indoor plumbing again. And shampoo and conditioner, and a hair dryer.

"_Don't people have towels in the future?" _abruptly echoed in his head, making him laugh. "Great Scott, technology has spoiled us by 1986, hasn't it?" he said aloud. "At least some of what I'm going through now wouldn't have been that unfamiliar to my 1955 self."

_**It's human nature to seek easier ways of doing things,**_ Jules said. _**Look at us – no human really **_**needs**_** four extra arms – particularly ones with their own AI attached – and yet here we are. Besides, few people would say you were spoiled for worrying about your hygiene.**_

_Not in 1986, but here in 1885? Perhaps. Everyone's so concerned with simple survival that wasting precious time on a daily shower might be seen as foolish._ Doc grabbed the towel from its hook on the wall and dried himself off as the water dripped away. _Times like these make me wonder why I ever considered this time period to be so romantic._

_**Growing up on cowboy movies that show only the exciting stuff will do that,**_ Verne pointed out.

_**And those movies didn't come in smell-o-vision,**_ Tommy added.

Doc laughed. _Very good point._

He threw his nightshirt, boxers, and shoes back on, then hurried inside the shop once more. Marty and Jennifer were still completely out of it, which gave him plenty of time to dress himself and check on their chicken. Cynthia had come through again with three eggs. Doc gave the bird an affectionate pat. "Now I'm glad I didn't cook you when I met you."

He got the skillet ready and cracked the eggs while the tentacles prepared bacon and toast. Cooking was a rather more involved process than he was used to in this time period – _again, spoiled by technology _– but Doc felt he was adapting nicely.

**You're**_** adapting nicely?**_ Albert teased as he turned the toast over in his claw.

We_, yes,_ Doc allowed, glancing back at the tentacles. _Thank you for your assistance._

_**We're happy to help,**_ Verne assured him. _**Though it's nice to get a little credit now and then.**_

_**Yeah – I know we can't reveal ourselves to the public for reasons of temporal stability, but sometimes it would be nice to get more praise for doing the heavy lifting of the smithwork,**_ Albert admitted, clacking his claw over the hot plate.

Doc frowned. _I'm sorry, boys. I'll find a way to make it up to you._

_**It's all right, Father,**_ Tommy told him, giving him a quick nuzzle. _**The thank yous **_**do**_** go a long way.**_

They were just sliding the last egg onto Marty's plate when a groan issued from the cot. Jennifer sat up, stretched, then blinked blearily at Doc and the tentacles. "Hey guys. That breakfast?"

"Yup," Doc said, distributing the plates around the table. "The usual."

Jennifer nodded, then poked her boyfriend in the ribs. "Time to get up, Marty."

Marty grumbled and curled up tighter under his blanket. "Ugh. Morning already?"

"'Fraid so. Come on."

Marty groaned, but slowly pushed himself upright. Verne waved a piece of bacon under the teen's nose, hoping to speed the waking process. "Thanks," Marty said, grabbing it and sticking it in his mouth. Then he frowned. "Wait, breakfast already? Either you woke up early, Doc, or we woke up late."

"I let you sleep in a little this morning," Doc said, smiling. "It's a bit of a special day."

"It is?"

"I'm guessing that you haven't already fixed the DeLorean – have you?" Jennifer asked, hope shining faintly in her eyes.

"Sorry, no – though I _have_ been making better progress than I thought on that. This is more personal." Doc grinned widely at Marty as the tentacles buzzed. "Happy birthday, kid."

Marty blinked a few times, looking confused. "Huh? Doc, it's not my birthday. It's–" he glanced at the page-a-day calendar Doc had purchased the other day. "July 17th."

"Calendar-wise, yes, it's not your birthday," Doc allowed. "But biologically it is. Remember our discussion the fifth? About how while it was Jennifer's birthday on the calendar, it wasn't really biologically?"

The light dawned in Marty's eyes. "Oh, right! So we've got the opposite going on today, huh? I'm 18 no matter what the calendar here says?"

"Precisely. Welcome to the age of majority."

Marty put a hand to his head. "Whoa. This is heavy."

"I know," Jennifer agreed, looking quite weirded out. "One thing to have my birthday date show up, another for – uh – How'd you know it was going to be today, Doc?"

"Simple mathematics. The boys and I did some calculations the day after your 'birthday' had passed. It was really just a matter of counting the days until Marty's birthday from the date we left in 1986, then applying that to the month we're currently in."

Marty and Jennifer both frowned as they did the mental arithmetic. "22, 23. . .hang on, Doc, your math's off. We've only been here about two weeks. My birthday was almost a month away in 1986."

"You're forgetting that your biological birth date was already pushed up a week," Doc told him, smirking.

"Huh – oh, right, 1955, duh!"

"Exactly!" Doc jabbed the air with his finger for emphasis. "Subtracting that week brings us back to the 20th of this month, and then the tentacles determined we spent about a day fixing the mess with the almanac, so I subtracted that as well." He spread his arms. "And here we are!"

Marty snorted. "This is crazy. You're sure it's today?"

"Well, if you want me and the kids to start working out the exact hours, minutes, and seconds involved. . . ."

"I think I'll just trust you." The tentacles whirred in mock-disappointment. Marty chuckled, then looked thoughtfully off into space. "18. . . ."

"It's a big milestone," Doc said, the tentacles wrapping around the teens to draw them to the breakfast table. "Even in 1986, you'd be a legal adult in almost every way. Still couldn't drink, of course, but you've never showed any interest in that."

"Too many bad memories of the old version of Mom," Marty said, plopping down in his chair. His shoulders suddenly slumped. "Jesus, it feels like ages since I've seen her – or the rest of my family. I wonder how they're doing."

"Do you think they've noticed we're missing?" Jennifer asked, chewing on her lower lip. "I mean, my dad freaks out if I'm ten minutes late back from a date. I don't even want to think about how he might feel now."

"It depends on how you want to look at the time line," Doc said, poking at his eggs with his fork. "As long as we're stuck back here, without a working time machine, then yes, they would notice. They're probably calling the police and making all sorts of inquiries as to where we are. If things continue onward like this, we'll most likely end up on-file as unsolved missing persons cases." A sudden horrific possibility popped into his brain. "Great Scott – and that means you and Marty would certainly have no children in the future, which means the trigger for this whole adventure – Marty being mistaken for his own son – would never happen. . . ."

"Oh, no, not _more_ of this paradox bullshit," Marty groaned, almost doing a faceplant right into his bacon. "I'm sick of the world trying to end itself!"

_**You're not the only one,**_ Albert groused, screeking. _**Why is it everything we do these days runs the risk of causing a paradox?**_

"Not _everything_ – just the major events," Doc said, though he too was starting to feel rather peeved. "It's an unfortunate side effect of owning a time machine. Exploring the space-time continuum, even if you take the proper precautions, always runs the risk of having large and dangerous consequences." _Just another reason to destroy it once we get back,_ he added mentally.

_**Father, please don't,**_ Jules said. _**Things aren't that bad.**_

_That's debatable._ Doc shook his head. "That's not something we need to worry about, though," he reassured his rather pale friends. "It won't matter in the long run. We _are_ going to get home. And once we do, your families won't realize you've been gone longer than maybe a few hours. The timeline will reset, and everything will be fine."

"You promise, Doc?" Marty asked, looking up at him anxiously.

"Well, given that a paradox hasn't wiped out the universe _already_. . . ." It got a smile out of both teens. "I'll get us home. Trust me."

"We do, Doc," Marty assured him.

"It just gets frustrating sometimes," Jennifer said, picking at her breakfast. "I mean, this place is so – _backwards_. And I say this as somebody who likes to read the history textbook cover to cover in the first week of school."

_**Yeah, she likes history so long as it isn't happening to her,**_ Albert joked.

Doc relayed the tease, getting a quick chuckle, before adding, "I was actually thinking about that earlier. I was a real fan of this time period before I actually had to live in it." Giving his friends an encouraging grin, he added, "But I think all of us – especially you two – are adapting quite well."

"Do we have much of a choice?" Marty said, gesturing with his fork. "And getting used to outhouses is debatable, Doc."

"Come on, Marty. . . ."

_**No, I'm with him,**_ Verne piped up. _**After watching your reactions upon using it the first few times, we're all very glad we don't have any way to detect smell.**_

"All right, all right – but even still, neither of you seem nearly as awkward as you did when we first arrived."

Marty shrugged. "Making the best of things, Doc. It helps that everyone's been so nice to us so far."

_**Except for Mad Dog Tannen,**_ Tommy said, hissing.

"Tannen doesn't count," Doc said firmly. "But the rest of the townsfolk have been very accommodating. I mean, I know our motto has always been 'a nice place to live,' but you'd think strangers like us would be more – outcast."

"I think it's mostly because they really needed a blacksmith and you and the kids have turned out to be great at it," Jennifer said. "I hate to say it, because I know you'll freak, but I think the actual blacksmith, whenever he shows up, is going to be a disappointment."

"I'm trying not to think about that too much," Doc said, pausing a moment to take a bite out of his toast. "I keep telling myself, get back to 1986 first, _then_ worry about our effect on the time line. I can go back and alter things if I have to once I'm in a time period where I can repair the DeLorean properly."

_**And how would you do that if you're so intent on destroying it?**_ Verne said.

_You know darn well I meant I would do that before._

"Good thinking," Marty nodded. "You're paranoid enough already."

Doc gave him a bit of a look. "It's justified paranoia, let me remind you."

"Yeah, I know, but – back when I landed in 1955, you wanted to keep me locked up in the mansion, remember? I'm glad you're not like that here. I'd go crazy under house arrest."

"Me too," Jennifer agreed.

"Not like I could enforce such an order anyway, what with me taking in customers," Doc said. "I was very new to the idea of time travel back then, Marty – we both were. I was only saying what I thought would be best. Now – well, I figure that I've drilled the rules into both your and Jennifer's heads enough times for you to remember them and not do anything overtly stupid."

"After this trip, I don't think I'll _ever_ forget them," Marty said.

"Good."

They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, working their way through the simple breakfast. "So," Marty finally said as he finished his toast, "uh – anything special happening today? Since it's my 'birthday' and all?"

"They really didn't celebrate birthdays like that then – er, now," Jennifer corrected herself. "Not for somebody as old as Marty. That muffin from Mrs. Anderson for me was just because she was nice."

"True, but I'll be damned if I let my best friend's technical 18th pass without any mention at all." Doc grinned. "Mrs. Anderson promised to bake you a cake, Marty. I'll be picking it up later today."

"Great!" Marty said enthusiastically as Jennifer beamed. "She always makes the best stuff."

"I know. I think she enjoys baking in general – she volunteered her services right away when I told her it was your birthday," Doc said, as the tentacles buzzed softly. "And the boys and I have something for you."

Marty blinked, surprised. "You – got me a present? I thought you wanted to keep shopping to anything 'essential' so we didn't screw things up."

"Quality of life is an essential," Doc said with a smile. Both Marty and Jennifer arched an eyebrow. "All right, I'm stretching my own rules, but I really do believe that. I don't want any of us to be miserable back here. _And_ getting it turned out to have an unexpected payoff, so it worked out all around."

Marty and Jennifer looked at each other, then at Doc, now with naked curiosity. "What is it?"

In response, the tentacles extended and grabbed a box that had been hidden under the DeLorean's tarp. They deposited it on Marty's lap, chittering cheerfully. "Go ahead and open it," Doc urged.

Marty eagerly pulled the top off the gift. His jaw dropped. "Holy shit!"

Jennifer looked inside. "It's – a guitar?"

Doc nodded, his grin practically dividing his face in two now. "One of the nicest you can get it this time period – or so I hear."

Marty reverently lifted the instrument from the box, running his fingers along the curved wood. "Oh wow, it's beautiful. . .I'm not usually into the acoustic ones, but they did a good job on this. Look at the detail!"

"It certainly is pretty," Jennifer said as Marty plucked a few strings. "Though honestly, I think it would look better in your hands if it was cherry red or banana yellow or something."

Marty laughed. "I dunno – I think I like it as it is," he said, playing a quick scale. "Oh man, I've been missing this. I know it's only been a couple of weeks, but I feel _way_ out of practice." He looked up at his friend. "Where'd you find it? I know you couldn't have gotten it here. I looked all over Hill Valley for one!"

"You can thank Joe Statler for his assistance the next time you see him," Doc informed him as the tentacles wriggled. "One of your major complaints about this time period has always been missing your music, so after the kids and I did the calculations, we figured 'what the hell?' and asked Joe about it when he came to pick up the third string of horses. He was only too happy to help – in exchange for another discount, of course," Doc added, rolling his eyes. "He went off to San Francisco to visit a friend three days ago, so I paid him to buy a nice guitar while he was there. This is what he came back with. I know it's not on-par with the guitars you're used to – the tentacles and I did some fiddling around to see if there was any way to convert it with the spare hoverboard parts, in fact – but it's the best I can do in this time period."

"And it's great, Doc, trust me," Marty told him as he lovingly petted the body of the guitar. "I mean, having a thrown-together electrical badass would have been awesome, but – either way, I've really, _really_ missed this. Thanks a million!" He got up and threw his arms around his friend and the tentacles. "You guys are the best. Seriously."

The tentacles wrapped around the teen, chirruping. "Glad you like it," Doc said, returning the embrace.

"You really tried to make Marty an amp with the spare hoverboard parts?" Jennifer asked, amused. "Damn, I would have paid good money to see that. . .though you didn't try to use anything we need, right?"

"Absolutely not," Doc assured her. "I wouldn't have even attempted it if I didn't know there were some bits I was unlikely to use. In fact, all that fiddling around with a homemade amplifier actually helped me figure out a better way to use them in the time circuits. I think I can hook up a lot of things much more safely now."

"Really? Does that mean we could be out of here sooner?"

"Yup!"

Jennifer grinned brightly. "Best birthday present ever."

"Definitely," Marty agreed, giving Doc a thumbs up.

Doc laughed and had the tentacles pull Jennifer into the hug. "I'm quite glad you both approve! Happy birthday, Marty."

Sunday, July 19th

12:42 P.M.

"Why does this have to happen every year? Devil himself must have cursed that field. . . ."

Seamus McFly grumbled as he awkwardly maneuvered his wagon up to the blacksmith shop. As usual, his summer work with the crops had fallen prey to yet another buried stone. Why did that farm of his have to be so rocky? Not a year went by where he didn't bend a tooth on his plow, or dent a shovel or rake, or – like today – break an axle on his wagon. Sometimes it felt like he made his money only to hand it all over to the blacksmith. _Well, at least Mr. Wayne's very good at what he does,_ he consoled himself as he brought his horse to a halt before the shop. _Only been here a few weeks, and already has quite the reputation. I just hope his skill shoeing horses extends to fixing axles._

As was Mr. Wayne's habit, the doors to the blacksmith's were closed, with just a little crack to let in the fresh air. Seamus had to admit, he'd always found that a little odd. The month had started out blazing hot, and even now it hadn't cooled down all that much. And yet, no matter what the time of day or who was coming, the shop doors were sealed tight. Didn't Mr. Wayne ever feel the need to air out his home? The old smith had had the doors open every day in summer. _If I made my living over a hot forge, I'd certainly want the doors open,_ Seamus thought as he climbed down from his seat_. Then again, Mr. Wayne's also a much more private man. Perhaps he just doesn't like people staring at him as he works. Not everyone's quite used to the idea of such an older smith, after all._ He walked up to the doors. "Mr. Wayne?" he called, peering in through the crack.

Only to see a gray, slithery _something_ inches from his face.

Seamus screamed, stumbling backward and nearly falling ass over teakettle. The – thing – screeched, apparently as surprised as himself, and disappeared in an eyeblink. Seamus retreated a few steps further, clutching at his chest._ What – what _was_ that?!_ he thought, gaping at the door with eyes the size of dinner plates. _Looked a little bit like a snake, but I've never seen a snake that color or size! What has Mr. Wayne got _living_ in there with him?_

After what felt like an eternity, the door opened, revealing a puzzled and worried-looking Mr. Wayne. "Mr. McFly?" he asked, face wrinkled up with concern. "Are you all right? I thought I heard a yell. . . ."

"I – I–" Seamus stammered, trying to figure out what exactly to say. How exactly did you warn someone about something you weren't even sure how to describe? "You'd best be on your guard, Mr. Wayne," he said, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "Something nasty appears to be living in your shop."

Mr. Wayne's frown deepened. "What do you mean? I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary."

"It looked to be some sort of snake," Seamus said, glancing around. There was no sign of the beast now, thank God in Heaven. "Though, to be sure, it was the oddest snake I've ever seen. A dull grey, with pointed jaws and no eyes I could see. And big too – about as tall as me on its tail!"

Mr. Wayne raised an eyebrow. "Really? I really think I would have noticed something that large sharing my living quarters," he commented.

"It can move quick too – it bolted the instant I yelled." Seamus shook his head. "I don't know what it was, really, but – I'd check this place from top to bottom, if I were you. Just to be safe."

Mr. Eastwood joined his uncle as Mr. Wayne continued to regard Seamus dubiously. "What's the matter? Something happen to somebody?"

"Mr. McFly here says he saw a giant snake-like creature in our shop," Mr. Wayne said, glancing down at the young man. "Have you seen anything like that around, Marty?"

"Not me," Mr. Eastwood said, shaking his head. He turned to look over his shoulder. "Jennifer! You see anything weird lurking in here?"

"Nope!" Miss Streisand's voice called.

Mr. Eastwood shrugged at Seamus. "I don't know what to tell you. Sorry."

"If it's as large as you say, no matter how quick it moves, I'm quite certain one of us would have spotted it by now," Mr. Wayne added. "We've cleaned this place from top to bottom, and the only nasty surprise we got was in the outhouse. At the very least, we would have more incidents with panicking animals."

Looking at the pair of them, so sure of themselves and their shop, Seamus felt his confidence in what he'd seen waver. He certainly couldn't think of a reason the blacksmith and his nephew would lie about seeing such a creature. As Mr. Wayne had said, surely one of the horses Mr. Statler had been bringing him would have spotted it and tried to bolt. And he _had_ been working in the sun all that morning, with only a short break for breakfast. He'd had his hat on, to keep the worst of the rays off, but still. . . . And the idea of a giant, grey, eyeless snake _was_ rather unbelievable once you got down to it. . . . Seamus shook his head. "Maybe I imagined it. Strange thing to imagine, but. . . ."

Mr. Wayne gave him a sympathetic smile. "Probably has to do with the heat. I've seen more than one person go funny in the head from too much time in the sun. Marty, go get Mr. McFly a glass of water."

"You don't have to do that, Mr. Wayne," Seamus protested as Mr. Eastwood went to carry out the task. "I'm all right now."

"Nonsense. A drink will do you good." He grinned playfully. "Besides, it would be rather bad for business if you expired on my property."

Seamus laughed, feeling much more at ease. "Aye, I suppose it would."

Mr. Eastwood returned with the glass, which Seamus accepted gratefully. "So, what brings you by?" he asked as the farmer took a long swallow.

"My wagon axle broke. I was hoping you could fix it." He showed them the damage, held together by one of his many patch jobs. "Drove it over a rock. Happens ever summer, it seems. . . ."

Mr. Wayne got down on his knees and examined the bar. "Hmmm – it look like a simple, clean break at least. If you leave it here, I could probably have it ready for you by tomorrow."

"Really?"

"It's been a little slow lately, and it's not that difficult a job," Mr. Wayne assured him. "I probably could have had it ready for you the same day if you'd brought it earlier. I did this thousands of times in the circus."

"Aye, I bet you did." Seamus untethered his horse, and he and Mr. Eastwood dragged the wagon inside the shop. "I'm much obliged, Mr. Wayne."

"That's my job," Mr. Wayne said, touching his hat. "Have a safe ride back, and I'll see you tomorrow. And I'll check the premises for any signs of unusual reptile life, just in case."

"Good. Thank you again." Seamus nodded and turned to go –

Then hesitated. Was it just him, or had he seen, under Mr. Wayne's coat, a familiar flash of grey?

He shook his head. No. He had to be imagining things. Why would that monster be wrapped around Mr. Wayne? The heat was probably still playing tricks with his head. He waved goodbye to the blacksmith and his family and headed outside. _Whew – perhaps there's time for another drink at the Palace before I head home,_ he thought, taking his horse and leading it across the street. _Won't do for me to start seeing such creatures in my field!_

* * *

Back inside the blacksmith shop, Doc shut the doors firmly, latched them, then leaned against them with a deep sigh. "Great Scott, that was too close," he muttered as the tentacles slithered out from beneath his coat.

_**I'm sorry, Father,**_ Verne said, claw drooping. _**I saw the door was slightly open and I just wanted to close it. I didn't expect him to be there!**_

"It's okay, Vernie," Doc said, patting the contrite tentacle. "It was an accident. I'm just glad we were able to convince him it was nothing but a heat mirage."

"Tell me about it," Marty said, wiping his brow. "For a minute there, I thought he was gonna insist we had better start looking for that snake – or worse, realize it _wasn't_ a snake. . .we need a better lock for those doors."

"Agreed," Doc said, the tentacles nodding. "Adding a simple wooden deadbolt to the current system should. I can make that this afternoon." He sighed again. "I suppose I should just be grateful this is the first real close call we've had. Hiding the tentacles is an awkward job. I've noticed people giving my coat odd looks on occasion."

_**We do try to stay as still as possible,**_ Jules said. _**It just gets hard sometimes.**_

_**Yeah, we like to move around,**_ Tommy agreed.

"I know," Doc said, straightening up and moving to Seamus's wagon. "And to be fair, I don't know if it's any glimpses of you lot they're wondering about so much as my wearing such a heavy piece of fabric in this weather. Not that I can blame them at times. . . ." He grumbled. "Sometimes I wish people weren't so easy to scare, or that there was less risk in showing future technology in this time period. Life would be so much easier if I didn't have to concentrate so hard on making sure no one sees you."

_**Life would be so much easier if we weren't stuck back here in the first place,**_ Albert pointed out. _**No use in wishing for the impossible.**_

"At least it was Seamus," Marty said. "I don't think we could have convinced somebody like Buford that it was all in their head." He smiled weakly. "Maybe it's got something to do with him being related to me?"

"Perhaps – I'm still amazed by how much he looks like you," Doc confessed. "I'd always pegged you as more of a Baines in appearance."

Marty shrugged. "Got me, Doc. The really weird part is that my grandpa Arthur looks a hell of a lot like my dad. And then you've got my kids being clones of me. . .maybe it goes in cycles? Like, Douglas or Marlene's kid is gonna look like a George?"

"Perhaps." Doc shook his head. "That's a conversation for another day, however. Let's get that deadbolt constructed before we get another surprise visitor."

Sunday, July 19th

6:21 P.M.

As was usual, the Palace Saloon was bustling with activity when Doc, Marty, and Jennifer walked through the swinging doors. It seemed almost the entire town of Hill Valley gathered here on weekend nights for a drink and perhaps a bit of food or company. Marty dodged around one customer who'd clearly already had a few too many. "Sheesh, and it's not even dark out," he mumbled.

"Some people just don't know the meaning of the word 'moderation,'" Doc commented, shaking his head.

Chester grinned at them as they made it up to the bar. "Hello, folks. Heard that there's something special happening today from Joe Statler."

"Quite right," Doc replied, smiling. "It's my nephew's birthday today, and we're hoping to celebrate with a nice dinner."

"Well, congratulations! How old are you, Mr. Eastwood?"

"18," Marty reported, beaming with pride.

"Good age," Chester nodded, then turned toward the bottles lined up behind him. "Let me get you a drink – on the house!"

"Oh, that's okay," Marty said hastily, waving a hand. "I'm fine, really." _Appreciate the thought, buddy, but if you think I'm ever drinking out of one of _those_ bottles_. . . .

"What, ain't you man enough?" a familiar voice mocked from their right.

With a group eye-roll, Doc, Marty, and Jennifer turned to face the trio of old-timers, seated at their customary table. "What kind of boy don't drink on his birthday?" the one with the handlebar mustache, whom they'd learned was called Jeb Haney, continued with a frown.

"It ain't right," the bearded one, Zeke Smitty, agreed.

"Look, I just don't feel like a drink right now," Marty said, sharing an exasperated look with his friends.

"It's not any of your business anyway," Doc added, matching Haney's frown.

"Come on, none of it'll kill ya," the fat one in the bowler hat, Levi Vance, said, then smirked. "Not right away, anyway."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to see 19, thanks," Marty replied.

"And like Doc said, who asked your opinion?" Jennifer added, folding her arms and directing a dark look at the men.

"Begging your pardon, little lady, but it's my firm opinion that there's something not quite right with a man who don't drink," Haney said, touching his hat.

"Man does not need alcohol to survive," Doc said with a soft huff. "Trust me, I learned that the hard way."

"Oh? What happened to you, blacksmith?" Smitty asked, leaning forward.

"A friend of mine coerced me into having a drink after a particularly bad fight with my current lady friend," Doc explained, wrinkling his nose as he recalled the incident. "One glass of whiskey, and I was out like a light until the next morning. Woke up at the doctor's with the worst headache I have ever had in my life. I have no desire to repeat the experience."

The three old-timers looked at each other in wonderment. "Wait – did you say _one_ glass of whiskey?" Vance said, tone disbelieving.

"Just the one," Doc confirmed with a nod. "Apparently it's some sort of family quirk – alcohol has a much stronger effect on us than it would on anyone else."

Smitty shook his head. "My word. You afraid you'll get the same, Mr. Eastwood?"

"Why take a chance?" Marty shrugged, happy for any excuse to avoid the foul concoctions Chester pretended were booze. "You want to have to keep an eye on me while I'm out?"

"Uh, not particularly."

"Sarsaparillas, then," Chester said with a hint of regret. "As for the food, we've got steak tonight. Fresh off the cow."

Marty licked his lips. "That sounds great."

"Oh yes," Jennifer agreed, nodding eagerly.

"Sounds good to me too," Doc grinned. "Let's have three. All well-done."

"You got it," Chester said, pouring their drinks. "Joey! Three steaks!"

As the group settled down to wait for their food, Haney got up and approached them, carrying his drink. "Be straight with me, Wayne," he said, a hint of a slur in his voice. "Would you _really_ pass out after just one drink? 'Cause that was a mighty incredible story you told just now."

Doc sighed, feeling the tentacles twitch slightly in annoyance. "_Yes_, Haney. It's a rare metabolic condition. I know it makes me an oddity–"

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it," Haney said, putting his shot down on the table and leaning into the scientist's face. Doc pulled back to avoid the man's whiskey-tainted breath. "Because I think you're bullshi – I think you're lying to us," he corrected himself, looking at Jennifer. "No man passes out after just one drink."

"I do," Doc snapped. Why couldn't this man just let it go? Just because _they_ apparently _lived_ at the saloon. . . . "And no, I'm not going to prove it to you. Why should I?"

"I'll give you five dollars," Haney offered.

Doc snorted. "For collapsing like a rag doll in front of everyone and then waking up tomorrow with my head pounding worse than my anvil? I'll pass, thank you."

". . .Ten?"

"Look, will you drop it?" Marty snapped, glaring around Doc. "So he doesn't drink! So what?"

"It's not natural, that's what," Haney returned, scowling. "A real man drinks real booze!"

"Then why didn't any of you _real _men offer to be the blacksmith?"

"All I'm asking for is a bit of proof!" Haney shoved the shot at Doc, causing some of it to slosh over the side. "You a yellowbelly, Wayne? Too cowardly to drink a real man's drink?"

"No," Doc said evenly as Joey finally appeared on the scene carrying their steaks. "It's my nephew's birthday, and I refuse to mar the occasion by falling unconscious. Now will you _kindly_ go back to your table?"

Haney scowled, but finally seemed to get it through his head Doc wasn't going to capitulate. Grumbling to himself, he grabbed the glass closest to him and stalked back to his friends. "Nothing but a yellowbelly!" he yelled over his shoulder.

"All right, Doc – how about for a second birthday present, you let me punch him right in the mouth?" Marty asked, starting to stand up.

"He's hardly worth getting into a bar brawl, kid," Doc said, pressing down on Marty's shoulder.

_**I don't know – old fart like him couldn't put up much of a fight,**_ Albert commented. _**And he is one hell of a nuisance.**_

_That I won't argue, but still. Better to ignore him – if we can._ Doc sighed and shook his head. Most of the people around here were friendly enough, but those few who weren't could really get under his skin. Had he truly considered this place as a good vacation spot once? _Shows what happens when you form a mental picture of a place using old movies at the Town Theater as your guideline,_ he thought grumpily, picking up the glass in front of him and throwing back the drink. _Well, next time I–_

He had exactly five seconds to consider that the liquid he'd just poured down his throat tasted kind of funny for root beer. Then, without warning, the world went black.

* * *

"DOC!"

Marty leapt off his stool, nearly knocking it to the ground in his haste to reach his friend. Jennifer scrambled off hers as he dropped to his knees by Doc's side. "Doc! Doc, are you okay?!"

Doc didn't reply, but Marty could see the tentacles twitching under his coat, obviously struggling to keep still in the face of their own worry. "Shit. . . ." Fighting off a wave of panic, he grabbed the scientist's wrist and checked for a pulse.

It was there, strong and steady. Marty breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, at least he's not dead. . .Jennifer, help me roll him over."

"Right." With a few grunts and groans, the two managed to get Doc on his side. The scientist's body was limp, his face sagging, his eyes closed. Jennifer leaned over him with a baffled frown. "I don't get it," she said. "All we were doing was having dinner. Why would he just pass–"

She stopped as it hit both of them. Marty snatched Doc's glass from where it had fallen and sniffed it. "Eugh – yeah, whatever that was, it was _not_ sarsaparilla," he confirmed with a scowl. "Haney must have took the wrong glass."

The entire bar was watching the scene with interest now, a few people craning their heads for a better look. At the old-timers' table, Haney took a quick sip of his own drink. "Huh," he said, shaking his head. "What do you know. He wasn't lying."

Marty treated the man to his best death glare. "Yeah, you happy now?" he spat, resisting the urge to stomp over and stuff the glass down Haney's throat. "If you hadn't decided to come over here and be such a – I'd thought he'd had a heart attack for a minute!"

Haney shrank down in his seat. "I just – I didn't mean–"

"I don't give a damn," Marty cut him off, in no mood for excuses. "He's the only family I've got here, so you're gonna lay off him! You've been giving us crap since day one, and I'm tired of it! No more about him being a coward or too old for the job or anything like that, you hear me?!"

Haney nodded rapidly, sliding so far down Marty half-expected him to go under the table. The teen glared around the bar, daring anyone else to say anything. The other patrons quickly went back to their business. Marty scowled aimlessly for a moment, then turned to Chester, who braced himself. "You got any black coffee?" he asked.

"Yeah – but if you want him up in a hurry, you're gonna want something a lot stronger than coffee," Chester said, looking relieved not to be on the wrong end of Marty's ire.

Marty frowned. On the one hand, the bartender probably knew a thing or two about sobering people up quick. But on the other, he wasn't entirely sure he'd trust anything this guy whipped up from his stock, medicinal qualities or no. "What's your idea?" he asked tentatively.

Chester gave him a devious grin before turning to Joey, clapping his hands. "Let's make some wake-up juice."

Joey nodded and grabbed a jar from beneath the counter. The two bartenders set about gathering ingredients and throwing them into the pot. Marty bit his lip as he saw what looked like chili powder and tabasco sauce being poured in. _Aw jeez. . . ._ He leaned close to his friend, under the presence of checking his breathing. "Hey, kids – if you can wake him up before they finish that, I think we'd all appreciate it," he whispered.

He heard a quiet squeak in response. Jennifer took Marty's hand. "Do you think they'll be able to get him up?" she asked quietly.

"They managed to yank him out of unconsciousness when Carlyle gave him that sedative," Marty shrugged. "Maybe they can do the same here."

Unfortunately, it was not to be – before two minutes were up, Marty felt someone clap him on the shoulder. He looked up to see the bartender over him, offering him a clothespin. "Here, stick that on his nose."

"Why?" Marty asked, baffled.

"To get him to open his mouth, of course," Chester said, looking at Marty like he was an idiot. "Won't work if he can't drink it."

"It's ready now?" Marty looked past Chester toward the jar on the counter, now filled with a disturbing brownish-red sludge. "Yikes."

"Yeah, I know, it ain't pretty – but it does the job," Chester told him, giving him a devilish grin. "Ten minutes, and he'll be as sober as a priest on Sunday."

Marty glanced between the two men, hesitating. Did he really want to do this to his best friend? That "wake-up juice" looked like, and probably tasted like, the northbound end of a southbound mule. On the other hand, he didn't want Doc passed out like this for the rest of the night. What to do?

A soft, annoyed snap from Doc's coat caught his attention. Apparently the tentacles weren't having much luck in reviving their "father." And if they couldn't get him up. . .Marty sighed and stuck the clothespin on Doc's nose. "Sorry, Doc."

It took a minute, but eventually Doc opened his mouth to breathe. Chester promptly stuck a funnel between the scientist's lips. "Okay, now go ahead and pour this down his gullet," he said, handing Marty the jar. Marty took it reluctantly, wrinkling his nose at the glop inside, but held it over the funnel. "Oh, and stand back," Chester suddenly added just as he was about to pour, edging away from the pair.

Marty nearly handed the jar back to Chester and said he'd wait it out upon hearing that. But then one of the tentacles twitched again beneath his friend's coat, and he was reminded of how helpless Doc had looked on that hospital bed, how close he'd come to losing him. . . . Swallowing back his fears, he poured the liquid down Doc's throat.

Nothing much happened for the first few seconds. Then, halfway through the jar, Doc's eyes snapped open. "AAAUUUGGGHHH!"

Marty really had no idea how his friend actually made it out the door – one moment, he'd been lying on the floor, the next he'd seemingly teleported himself outside. Marty scrambled to his feet and gave chase, with Jennifer and Chester right on his heels. They found the scientist with his front half almost completely submerged in the horse trough. The desperate gulping noise coming from its depths suggested Doc was attempting to drink it dry. Marty and Chester quickly pulled his head out before he could inadvertently drown himself. "Doc!"

For one terrifying moment, Doc waved, looking like he about to lapse back into unconsciousness. But then his head snapped up straight, and he blinked. "Ow," he muttered, screwing up his eyes. "What happened?" He pressed a confused hand to his forehead. "And why the hell am I wet?"

"Haney accidentally traded his shot for yours," Jennifer said. "Chester said he had a way to wake you up fast, and – well, it worked."

"I'm so sorry, Doc," Marty apologized, a rush of guilt whooshing through him. "I had no idea the stuff he stirred up would do _that_." He glared at Chester. "Why the hell didn't you warn us?"

"And ruin the surprise?" Chester looked into Doc's face, contemplative. "Actually, he's doing better than most people – usually it takes a lot longer for the stuff to clear up their head. You all right there, Mr. Wayne?"

Doc grimaced and clutched his scalp. "Relatively," he mumbled. "Whoo, what a headache. . . ."

"Can we use one of the upstairs rooms for a bit?" Marty asked. "I think he needs to lie down."

"Sure, no problem." Chester helped Doc to his feet. "The one right at the top of the stairs should be free," he added as they went back inside. "I ain't never seen a man who couldn't hold his liquor quite like you."

Doc glared at Chester for a moment, then turned to face Haney, who'd finally come up from his slump. "That's why I try _not_ to drink," he said loudly, then winced. "As I attempted to explain to _certain people_."

"This ain't my fault!" Haney protested, though he still looked a little fearful. "I didn't force that shot down your gullet!"

"You may as well have!" Jennifer snapped. "If you'd just left us alone–"

"Hello everyone!"

All heads turned to see a beaming Mrs. Anderson in the doorway, holding a large chocolate cake on a platter. "I was going to deliver this to the blacksmith shop, but then–" Her smile faltered. "Well, I saw Mr. Wayne's little – performance. . .are you all right?" she asked, all motherly concern.

"Just drank something I shouldn't have," Doc told her, attempting a grin. It came out as more of a grimace. "I should be fine. I'm just going upstairs to lie down."

"Mr. Wayne can't hold his liquor for nothing," Smitty reported. "One glassful of whiskey, and bam!" He hit the table with his hand. "Took some of Chester's famous juice to get him back on his feet."

Marty narrowed his eyes at the man. "He did try to warn everybody. . .Haney tried to pester him into taking a shot, then took the wrong drink so Doc drank it anyway," he explained to the confused woman.

"It was an accident," Haney groused.

"I see. I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," Mrs. Anderson said, full of sympathy. "I do hope you feel better soon."

"Thank you," Doc said, managing a more sincere grin this time.

"Here, I can take that, Mrs. Anderson," Jennifer said, holding out her arms for the cake. "It was very kind of you to make it."

Mrs. Anderson smiled again. "Oh, it was my pleasure! Happy birthday, Mr. Eastwood."

"Thanks, ma'am," Marty said with a lopsided smile. "Though it could have been a lot better."

A few of the patrons eyed the platter in Jennifer's arms with interest. "That looks mighty good," one man offered.

"It does, doesn't it?" Jennifer said, hugging it tighter. "I think we'll eat it all. Cake doesn't keep well, after all."

"Yeah," Marty agreed. "Can't let it go to waste! Though if you want a piece, Chester, we'll give you one."

Now the entire bar was giving Haney the evil eye. The man looked down into his drink, not meeting anyone's gaze. Mrs. Anderson shifted uncomfortably. "Um – I'll just be on my way," she said, moving back toward the door. "Happy birthday again, Mr. Eastwood." With a quick wave, she disappeared back outside.

Chester steered Doc toward the stairs. "Go on up and get off your feet," he counseled. "I'll send Joey up with your steaks, in case you feel up to eating anything."

"Thank you, Chester." Doc started up, hanging tightly onto the railing. Marty and Jennifer followed closely behind, watching him like hawks.

Fortunately for everyone's nerves, they managed to reach their offered room without incident. The moment the three were inside and the door shut behind them, the tentacles popped out, creeling anxiously. Albert and Tommy provided a little extra support for their father as Jules and Verne hovered around his head. "Yes, kids, I'll be all right, please don't worry," Doc muttered, rubbing his head. "It's really just a nasty headache at this point."

"Sorry again about that wake-up juice stuff," Marty said as Jennifer set the cake on the night stand. "I tried to get them to wake you up, but you didn't budge. I guess you were really out of it."

The tentacles softly chattered agreement. "I think I felt them poking at me subconsciously, but I can't be sure," Doc said, rubbing his temples. "Right now, I'm 99% certain their efforts are the only thing keeping me conscious."

Marty whistled. "Wow, that stuff really knocks you on your ass."

"The alcohol or the wake-up juice?"

"Either!"

Doc's snort of laughter was interrupted by a knock. "I've got your food here," Joey called.

"Just a sec!" Marty waved for the tentacles to put Doc on the bed. Once he was sure his friend wasn't going to tip over and the kids were out of sight, he opened the door. "Thanks, Joey. Just set it anywhere."

Joey came in, balancing three plates of food. He set them next to Doc, for lack of anywhere better. "I also brought you a knife for the cake," he added, eying it hopefully.

Jennifer giggled. "Thanks." She cut five slices out of the round. "Three for us – and you and Chester have these two once we're all done. Thanks for helping out."

"Just make sure Haney doesn't get even a sniff of it," Marty added, eyes narrowed.

"Sure thing, Mr. Eastwood," Joey smirked. "Hell, if you want, I'll spike his next drink with some of the leftover wake-up juice. Might knock some sense into him. A lot more people like Mr. Wayne than him, I'll tell you."

"I like it," Marty said vindictively.

"No, no, I think that's going a bit far," Doc said, waving a hand. "It _was_ a mistake, after all. I think getting the entire bar annoyed with him is punishment enough."

Joey looked a little disappointed, but nodded. "All right," he allowed. "I'll be back up later to check on you. You feel better soon, Mr. Wayne."

"I certainly hope I do."

Marty frowned as Joey left. "I think seeing Haney drink wake-up juice would have been funny," he complained as he shut the door again.

"I still say it's too much," Doc said firmly. "We can't go crazy on the revenge business. Even if that bastard gave me the worst headache I've had in years." He groaned. "The one thing I really miss here is Tylenol."

"Anything we can do, Doc?" Jennifer asked.

"Not really. The best cure for a hangover is sleep and time, from what I know about the subject." Doc handed Marty and Jennifer their plates and moved his to the night stand next to the cake, then lay down on his side, the tentacles curling around him. "So with that in mind, I'm going to attempt a nap."

"Don't you want anything to eat?" Jennifer asked. "Not like we can just stick your dinner in the microwave here."

Doc shook his head, grimacing. "Just the thought of food makes my stomach turn. Though whether that's from the alcohol or the wake-up juice, I couldn't say."

Marty winced. "Ugh. Sorry again for letting them poor that shit down your throat. I was just – really worried, you know?"

Doc managed a small smile. "I do. Sorry for causing such a scene on your birthday."

"It wasn't your fault, it was Haney's." Marty chuckled and patted Doc's shoulder. "Besides, it's technically not my real one, so it doesn't count."

Doc chuckled. "Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the Land of Nod. Don't eat my slice of cake while I'm away."

"Can't make any promises there, Doc," Jennifer teased. "You know how good Mrs. Anderson's baking is."

Tommy immediately went to stand guard over Doc's share of the pastry. "Hey, that's cheating!"

"Never get between a sugar-addicted tentacle and his treats," Doc said, smirking. He glanced over at the other three still curled around him. "Wake me in a hour, all right?" They nodded. "Thank you. Good night, for now." He flopped his head on the pillow and shut his eyes.

"Poor Doc," Jennifer said, rubbing his arm. "I hope he'll be able to make it back to the shop when he wakes up." She sighed and poked at her steak. "Well, Marty, you can't say you didn't have an exciting birthday."

Marty snorted. "Yeah. But after this, I'd be glad if we didn't have any excitement for the rest of the month."


	6. Two Unwelcome Tasks

Chapter 6

Saturday, August 29th, 1885

Hill Valley

10:49 A.M.

"Here you go, Mr. Thompson. That'll be $25."

Mr. Thompson gave an approving smile toward his mended wagon. "Excellent work, Mr. Wayne, as usual," he said, handing over the money. "We're really lucky to have you."

"I'd say I was the lucky one for landing here," Doc commented, shaking his hand. "You have a good day now."

"You as well." Mr. Thompson swung himself up into the driver's seat and cracked the reins. "Hi-ho, Charley! Off we go!"

Doc closed the door of the shop as the man drove off. "Another satisfied customer," he announced as the tentacles poked their claws out. "Good work, boys."

_**Oh, that was an easy job,**_ Verne said, rolling his pincers. _**I almost feel like we overcharged him.**_

"He didn't complain, so I'm not going to bring it up," Doc shrugged, patting his pocket. "Besides, when we leave this time period, we'll be leaving most of it behind. It'll circulate back into the community eventually." He gave the tentacles a grin. "You know, if we ever get tired of science, we could probably still make a decent living doing this in 1986. We'd have to move out into the country, of course. . . ."

The tentacles buzzed, amused. _**I think I like dealing with stuff that doesn't poop while you're working on it,**_ Tommy said.

"Heh, fair enough. That was an embarrassing moment, wasn't it? Even a gas leak on the DeLorean wouldn't smell quite so bad." Doc consulted his pocket watch. "Hmm – the town meeting's in seven and a half minutes. I'd better collect Marty and Jennifer."

_**Do you think it's wise to attend, Father?**_ Albert asked as they crossed the shop. _**Remember what happened last time.**_

"We're only expected to sit in the back for a hour or so – I think it's worth it just to keep up appearances," Doc said. "And I strongly doubt there will be a brawl at this one. Marshall Strickland came down hard on those two fellows."

_**Discipline discipline discipline, **_Verne said in a faintly-mocking tone. _**Doesn't the Strickland family know any other words?**_

"_**Detention," **_Tommy offered up. _**And "slacker."**_

"Be nice," Doc gently scolded. "Marshall Strickland has proven to be a lot friendlier and easy-going than his descendant."

_**True,**_ Verne allowed. _**But given what a jackass Vice-Principal Strickland is, I still wish he hadn't managed to reproduce.**_

Doc chuckled. "I think a lot of generations of high schoolers would agree with you there, Vernie."

Marty and Jennifer were exercising their horses in the paddock, cantering in a circle around the fence. They slowed to a stop as Doc approached. "Hey, Doc, what's up?" Marty asked.

"It's almost time for the town meeting. Come inside and freshen up."

"Oh, okay. I think we're about done here anyway," Marty said, giving Joan an affectionate pat on the snout. She whickered, tail swishing. "I'll be back later to give you a good brushing," he promised as he slid off her. "Man, I never realized just how much _work_ horses are. I really miss my truck sometimes. Or hell, my skateboard – that doesn't even need gas!"

"Not like you could use it here," Jennifer pointed out, stroking the mane of her palomino Barbie. "All the dust and dirt would wreck the wheels in five seconds. They're really not made for anything that isn't paved."

"Yeah. More reasons to say this time period sucks." Marty sighed and gave Joan one last pat before heading inside. As usual, the mare followed him right up to the door before turning her attention to some dandelions. "I still don't know why that horse has a thing for me," he commented, making his way to the washbasin.

"I don't think we ever will," Doc said, joining him in scrubbing his hands. "That's a secret known only to Joan."

"I'm just glad she's stopped being all mopey whenever you leave her alone for five minutes," Jennifer said, splashing her face. "It'll be hard on her when we go back, won't it?"

"Yeah, but I'm not staying back here because of a horse," Marty said. "She'll get over me. There's got to be at least one other guy who's got the same weird smell I do." He gave his friends a flat look as they desperately tried to hold back their laughter. "Okay, yeah, that could have come out better."

After rinsing the dust off themselves, the trio headed across the street to the Palace. Most of the town's men were already gathered and picking seats, chatting to each other all the while. Jennifer frowned at them, then at the few women attendees left to find spaces in the back. "Ugh. I wish we were past the point of women suffrage," she muttered. "It annoys me to leave all the decision-making to the guys."

"Think of it this way – we're in a town that lets women attend the meetings at all," Doc said. "Back East, you'd probably be barred from even listening in."

"I know. Stupid Victorian values."

Right on cue, the local pastor appeared at their side. He stopped and looked down his nose at the three. "Hello," he said coolly.

"Hello, Reverend Warwick," Doc replied, just as stiffly. He saw Marty roll his eyes in anticipation of what was to come. "How are you?"

"Fine. Living a good, Godly life," Reverend Warwick replied. He almost sneered at Marty and Jennifer. "How are you, living in sin?"

"Just peachy," Marty said, taking Jennifer's hand.

Reverend Warwick sniffed. "Always taking such a disgrace against God's name lightly. I suppose that's what growing up in a _circus_ will do to you. When do you intend to make an honest woman out of this poor girl?"

"When he's good and ready," Jennifer replied, squeezing Marty's hand as they glared at the preacher. "We're not hurting anybody."

Reverend Warwick sniffed again. "There is more to being a moral person than 'not hurting anybody,' Miss Streisand. But I suppose I am once again wasting my breath in attempting to save your souls. Good day to you." He turned and walked away, muttering about sinners and heathens.

"Asshole," Marty grumbled once he was out of earshot. "Does he have to do that song and dance _every_ time we see him? It's getting really old."

_**He is mean, **_Tommy agreed. _**What business is it of his if Marty and Jennifer aren't married yet?**_

"He's a man of God – he considers it his duty to stop us 'living in sin,'" Doc said, voice tired. "Part of me thinks he just likes to complain, however."

_**I wouldn't be surprised,**_ Verne agreed._** The other people around here don't give us grief about our living arrangements, and they're all good Christians.**_

_**Well, some of the older women do like to cluck about it sometimes,**_ Albert qualified. _**But I'll take them over Warwick any day.**_

_Me too,_ Doc agreed. _At least we're used to being gossiped about._ He smirked._ If only they knew what other secrets I was hiding._ The tentacles sniggered softly.

The mayor, a plump, jolly man named Hubert Reagan, walked in. "All right, everyone!" he called, clapping his hands. "Let's get this over with!"

The last of the chatting groups began breaking up and searching for what seats were still available. Doc led his friends over to a table far in the back, where they'd easily be able to blend into the crowd. Tommy risked peeking out from under Doc's coat as they got settled. _**Uh-oh – Mr. South and Mr. Harper are giving each other the stink-eye,**_ he reported. _**We might have another brawl after all.**_

_**No we're not,**_ Verne corrected, taking a quick look of his own. _**Here comes Marshall Strickland. Wow, that was a dirty look!**_

_**Seemed to work, though – they're changing seats,**_ Albert said as South and Harper reluctantly got up and moved to opposite sides of the room._** Why do they hate each other so much, anyway?**_

_Could be any number of reasons – South insulted Harper while drunk, Harper cheated South somehow, perhaps even a general family feud between their respective clans,_ Doc told him. _Humans have a very large capacity for hate._

_**As we well know,**_ Jules said mournfully.

_Oh, don't be like that. Humans have their good points too. And if you're talking about the way most of 1980s Hill Valley treats me – well, it's an unfortunate fact that the most negative voices are the loudest. I doubt most people _care_ enough about me to hate me. I'd have a hard time even believing the pranksters who egged my house and made stupid phone calls truly _hated_ me. I'd limit that list to Steven Strickland, Biff Tannen, and Stanley Carlyle._ The tentacles hissed at Carlyle's name._ Shhh! Yes, I know, the feeling is mutual. Hard not to hate someone who came that close to killing you._

_**One of the better reasons to hate someone in my opinion,**_ Albert said.

_Yeah, well, he's long in our past now._

_**Or future,**_ Tommy put in.

_Let's not even get into the potential of how mental tenses can get in our current situation, all right?_

After everyone had found a seat, and South and Harper were sufficiently far away from each other, the meeting started. Doc allowed himself to zone out as Hubert asked if there was any old business that needed discussing. He, Marty, and Jennifer only came to these meetings to keep up the appearance of being normal citizens. He didn't dare take any active role in talking about the issues presented – too much was at stake. As the mayor blabbered on, he noticed Marty and Jennifer idly playing tic-tac-toe in the dust on their table. _Not a bad idea,_ he thought, and pictured a board so he could play a few rounds with the kids.

He was just about to win his fourth game against Jules when a loud voice interrupted his thoughts. "Just what sort of men _are_ you? You can't leave a lady stranded!"

Doc blinked, coming back to reality. Mrs. Anderson was standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed in a disgusted glare. "What happened?" he whispered to Marty, who was watching the scene with interest.

"Apparently nobody wants to pick up the new schoolteacher who's coming in sometime in September," Marty explained. "Don't ask me why."

"I have to agree with Mrs. Anderson," Jennifer said, scowling. "That's rude. Do they just expect her to find everything on her own? She should have someone to at least welcome her to town."

"Now, now, Mrs. Anderson," Hubert said, trying to placate the general store owner's wife. "Nobody wants to leave anyone stranded." He smiled at the assembled population. "I'm sure one of these fine gentlemen would be happy to meet our new schoolteacher when she arrives."

The "fine gentlemen" looked at each other and shifted in their seats. _**You think **_**one**_** would volunteer,**_ Jules said, tone disapproving._** I thought this was supposed to be 'a nice place to live.'**_

_**Should we say something?**_ Verne asked.

Doc frowned. _I don't know –_

The choice was abruptly taken from him as Mrs. Anderson spun toward their table. "Not even you, Mr. Wayne?" she said, sounding disappointed. "Or you, Mr. Eastwood?"

Reverend Warwick let out yet another self-important sniff. "I doubt either of them would give our arriving teacher the right impression of this town."

Marty bristled. "Hey! You have my word before God Jennifer and I aren't doing anything inappropriate! I've told you, she just doesn't want to live with strangers!"

"Your word before God means little, considering your spotty church attendance!"

"We've been busy! And it's not like you make us want to come all that much!"

"Don't start, you two," Marshall Strickland warned. "I'm not dealing with another brawl here."

Marty and Warwick fell silent, though they kept glaring at each other. Doc really couldn't blame the teen – he was pretty annoyed himself. "Our lifestyle choices may not be the most accepted by some people, but I think I'm perfectly capable of meeting a woman at a train station and escorting her to her house!" he snapped.

"Oh, then you'll do it? Good, thank you Mr. Wayne," Hubert said quickly. "Now then, any other business we need to settle before we adjourn?"

Doc blinked rapidly. _What – but – I didn't – did I just inadvertently volunteer to pick up the new schoolteacher?_

_**Certainly looks that way,**_ Albert said. _**Now what do we do? I doubt we can pawn the job off on someone else, given how reluctant everyone was to volunteer.**_

_**Honestly, it doesn't seem like any real trouble, **_Jules said. _**It appears we're only expected to escort the woman to her cabin. That seems simple enough. As long as we keep the conversation to a minimum, we shouldn't upset the space-time continuum.**_

Doc nodded thoughtfully. _I agree with Jules. Doing this task is probably less risky than my blacksmith job. It's only a few hours of our time at the most._

_**But what if she was supposed to form a relationship or something with whoever originally picked her up?**_ Albert said. _**You know, make a new best friend or something?**_

_We'll deal with that possibility once the DeLorean's properly repaired. Besides, it seems highly unlikely. You saw how "eager" the men were to help her._ Albert conceded the point with an imperceptible nod.

The meeting broke up shortly after that, with Hubert asking them to all come again in a couple weeks' time. Marty turned to Doc as they got up. "Uh, you gonna tell Hubert you didn't actually agree to pick up the new schoolteacher?"

"I don't see the point," Doc admitted. "Nobody else is going to do it. As long as all I have to do is show her to her house, I might as well."

"I guess," Jennifer said. Seeing Reverend Warwick passing by, she raised her voice slightly and added, "A lot of worse people could have taken the job."

Warwick shot her a glare and marched past with his nose in the air. "We have to stop antagonizing him so much," Doc said, though with less conviction than he wanted. "It's not doing our reputation any favors."

"Think of it as making sure people won't miss us too much when we leave," Marty joked.

"Oh, I'm sure Warwick will change his tune once he doesn't have anyone to shoe his horse." Doc shook his head as they broke off from the crowd of people pouring out of the saloon. "Speaking of which, I've got an idea as to how–"

"Hey! Blacksmith!"

Startled, Doc turned to find none other than Buford Tannen standing behind him, holding the reigns of a big black horse. "Hello, Tannen," he said, sighing internally. The man had vanished from town shortly after their arrival, to everyone's relief. Doc had been hoping they wouldn't have to see him for the rest of their stay. _Brown luck at work yet again._ "What do you want?"

"Blackie here needs shoeing," Buford said, jerking his head toward the horse. "Doubt an old codger like you could handle him, but you're the only blacksmith around."

Marty gave Buford the nastiest look he could manage. "Doc can handle your horse," he said, icicles practically forming on his words. "He's been handling everyone else's for the past month and a half."

Buford smirked. "Yeah, but I bet none of them were like my Blackie. Guy I stole him from said he was real high-spirited – likes kickin'." He turned back to Doc, eyes bright with malicious mischief. "Think you can handle him, smithy?"

Doc stared evenly back at him, refusing to be intimidated. "Bring him on in," he said, starting for the shop.

_**You sure you want to do this, Father?**_ Jules asked nervously. _**Any horse of Buford's is statistically likely to be as mean as he is. Especially if he's bragging about it.**_

_We've dealt with mean horses before. I don't want to find out what would happen if I refused to perform the job. Let's just get this over with so he can go back to whatever he was going and get out of our lives._

It took only a few minutes to reach the shop and open the doors. Doc turned to face Buford as he hauled his horse in. "Now, are you going to be leaving him, or–"

"Hell no," Buford interrupted. "I'm staying right here 'til the job's done."

"All right then." Doc had been hoping to get the tentacles' assistance, but. . .a simple shoeing job couldn't be beyond his own capabilities. He knelt down by Blackie's hooves to inspect them.

Blackie whinnied and reared up, pawing the air. Doc quickly scooted back, startled and just a little frightened. Buford laughed. "Told ya he was high-spirited!"

"Doc, you okay?" Marty asked, darting to his friend's side. Blackie snorted and dug one hoof into the ground. "Easy, horse, easy."

"I'm fine," Doc assured the teen. He got back to his feet and regarded Blackie, hands on his hips. "I suppose there's no chance of you holding him," he said to Buford.

"Nope," Buford grinned.

"Want me to try?" Marty offered.

"No offense, Marty, but I don't think you have the weight necessary to keep him still," Doc admitted as Blackie tossed his head.

"He and I could try together," Jennifer said, though her eyes clearly said she'd rather walk over hot coals than go near that horse.

"I don't want to risk either of you getting injured." Doc frowned thoughtfully. "We could try tying him to something–"

"He won't like that," Buford said, folding his arms with an air of someone much enjoying a show. "Not much of a blacksmith, are you?"

Marty inched nearer Blackie, then retreated as the horse stamped threateningly. "Anything your horse _does_ like?" he asked.

"Running," Buford said. Then, with a leer and a wink, he said, "And other horses."

Marty turned back to Doc, one eyebrow raised. "Well, in _that_ case, want me to go get Joan?"

"Trust me Marty – that would only make things worse." Doc considered Blackie carefully. "I've never met a horse that didn't respond to bribery, though. Get the carrots out of the ice box and try distracting him with those."

"Hey, don't start stuffing him full of carrots," Buford protested. "I ain't got time for a fat horse."

"A few carrots won't cause him to balloon, I assure you," Doc said with a frown. "I've got to work on him somehow." Buford just grumbled.

Marty retrieved the carrots and held one out in front of the restless horse. "Want a snack?" Blackie whickered and tried to chomp it, as Marty kept the tip just out of reach. Doc quickly grabbed a leg and lifted it. Blackie snorted and squirmed a little, but Doc held tight. He tched as he examined the hoof, frowning deeply. "These hooves are a mess! No wonder he's so tetchy," he said, releasing the leg. Blackie snorted again and made another grab for the carrot. "If you don't start cleaning his feet properly, he's going to end up slow no matter how much you feed him."

"Don't give me any lip, blacksmith," Buford snapped, pointing a threatening finger. "Just do your damn job."

_**Are you sure we can't dangle him upside-down over something?**_ Albert groused.

_No, if only because none of the buildings here are tall enough,_ Doc responded, fetching his tools and a test shoe. _Just be patient._

Blackie pawed the ground again as Doc got the hoof pick out, eying the blacksmith. Marty gave him the carrot to keep him calm. "Just out of curiosity – if we do have to try and hold him – does he bite as well as kick?" he asked Buford as Blackie crunched up the vegetable.

"Ain't seen him yet," Buford said, smirking. "But don't mean he don't."

"Just be sure to keep your fingers away from his mouth," Doc said, carefully easing the left front foot up. The horse shook his head, but otherwise stood still. _Must be getting used to me being around him,_ Doc thought, relieved. _Either that, or he's hoping to get more carrots for behaving. Either way is fine by me._

He cleaned out the hoof, then pared it down before holding the shoe he'd brought over against it. By some stroke of incredible luck, it was a perfect fit. He grabbed some nails and his hammer and attached it before Blackie could start protesting. As he drove in the last nail, he spotted one of the tentacles taking a quick peek at his handiwork. _What do you think, boys? I know you're the ones with all the real hands-on experience._

_**Not bad, Father,**_ Verne said approvingly. _**Not bad at all.**_

_**Though Buford will probably complain anyway, just because he can,**_ Albert added.

_Don't give a damn. Your opinion is all I care about._

_**Yeah, forget that big meanie – you did good, Father,**_ Tommy declared proudly.

_**Very nice work,**_ Jules added.

Doc smiled. _Thanks, kids._

After taking a couple of minutes to find three other shoes that matched the test one, he continued with his work, Marty bribing Blackie with a couple more carrots to keep the horse still. At last, the final shoe was in place. Doc happily scooted away from the fidgety horse and stood up. "There we go – all shod," he said, dusting his pants off.

Buford came up and took a look as Marty gave Blackie one last carrot. "Huh," he said at last. "I'm impressed, blacksmith. Looks good."

Doc stared, shocked. Had Buford really said –

_**But – guh – wha? **_Albert babbled, clearly as shocked as he was.

_I know! The last thing I expected today was to hear positive words from a Tannen!_ "Well, I'm glad you're happy," he said sincerely. "Now, about the matter of payment. . . ."

Buford burst out laughing. "I ain't _that_ impressed!"

Okay, that was more like it. Doc rolled his eyes. "Refusing to pay for services rendered? Can't say I'm that surprised. . . ."

"Hey, you can't get something for nothing around here," Marty protested. "That horse almost had my fingers once!"

"But he didn't," Buford said, pulling himself up. "And I ain't shooting any of you. Seems like a fair trade to me."

"Marty, trust me, it's not worth pushing it," Doc said as the teen went to speak again, eyes flicking to Buford's ever-present gun.

Marty seemed on the verge of protesting anyway – but then gave up his nascent vendetta with a sigh. "Fine, just get lost," he snapped, waving his hand like he was trying to scare away a particularly annoying bug. "But good luck getting anything from us ever again!"

"Never gonna need anything else, runt," Buford retorted. Then he winked at Jennifer. "Well – maybe if I get real lonely. . . ."

Doc's own ire rose at that. "You heard my nephew – out!"

Buford laughed, then slapped Blackie's flank. Marty snarled as he galloped out of the shop. "You know, I should have expected it, but it still pisses me off he'd do that," he admitted. "What I wouldn't give for just one chance to punch him in the face. . . ."

"I'd suggest going for where it _really_ hurts myself," Jennifer said, shuddering and brushing off her arms.

"Oh, that honor's all yours, Jen. Cross my heart."

"Aww, such a gentleman," Jennifer said with a giggle, kissing his cheek.

"I try, ma'am," Marty replied playfully, tipping his hat. "And Doc, thanks for stopping me before I said something stupid. Tannens just _really_ get under my skin, you know?"

"I do indeed," Doc assured him. "Thanks for not letting your temper get the better of you this time."

"Yeah, well, once I saw where you were looking. . . ." Marty shook his head. "I'm still pretty steamed, though. Maybe brushing out Joan will help."

"Go right ahead – I'm sure she'll enjoy it," Doc said, closing the doors. "The tentacles and I need to get back to work on the DeLorean."

"How's it coming?" Jennifer asked hopefully.

"Much better than expected," Doc reported with a grin. "Keep your fingers crossed it stays that way."

"Oh, we will, Doc," Marty said. "I'm more than ready to head home by now."

Doc patted his shoulder. "So am I. I want what you said to Buford just now to be true."

"Us too, Doc. Us too."


	7. Success - Except Not Really

Chapter 7

Thursday, September 3rd, 1885

Hill Valley

11:32 A.M.

_Well – that should do it._

Doc leaned back as the tentacles curled over his shoulders, looking from the time circuit control panel to the new control electronics deck they'd just wired in. The board was a hodgepodge of various scavenged technology from the far future and distant past, seemingly thrown together without any plan at all. Only a very careful eye could detect the subtle patterns of wires and switches that brought it all into harmony. It was ugly, crude, and likely to only work twice at the most. But – so long as it worked that first time. . . . "This is it, boys," Doc continued aloud, needing to break the unnatural silence hanging around the shop.

_**Do you think it'll work? **_Tommy asked nervously, weaving around the box that housed the conglomeration.

_**If it doesn't, we're up a creek without a paddle – or, more accurately, without even a boat,**_ Albert said, clacking his claw.

_**Have to start over from the very beginning,**_ Verne agreed with a squeak.

_**Would you like to know the odds of the device working, Father?**_ Jules asked, pointing his claw at Doc's ear.

Doc shook his head. "I get the feeling they'd only depress me," he said. "Besides, when have the odds ever applied to us?" Jules oscillated his body in a shrug.

_**Let's try it and get it over with,**_ Albert said, impatience clear in his voice. _**The suspense is killing me.**_

Doc nodded and reached for the activation handle. The polished wood felt slippery beneath his fingers – though maybe that was just sweaty palms. "Ready?" The tentacles nodded, cameras fixed on the time circuits. "Here goes." Taking a deep breath, Doc twisted the switch.

The control deck crackled, followed by the familiar high-pitched "beowp" of the circuits coming on. For a long moment, the display panel was an empty black. Then, suddenly, a line of zeros flashed across every readout. A surge of hope came up inside Doc. Could it be – ? He darted toward the driver's seat and sent his fingers flying over the keypad, programming in the current date. Another flash, and SEP 03 1885 11:34 A.M. appeared in the middle row, glowing a friendly green. Getting excited, Doc tried a destination date. Another flash, and the top row lit up bright red with OCT 26 1985 1:21 A.M. "Jules, plug in and see if you can trick it into thinking it's gone to 88 miles per hour," he whispered. "Just be careful."

_**On it, Father.**_ Jules hooked his internal wires into the control board and began hacking, while Doc and the others waited with baited breath.

The deck emitted a spark or two, whined a little – and then the Present Time readout changed to OCT 26 1985 1:21 A.M., with the Last Time Departed now showing off the present date in yellow. Doc threw his hands in the air, letting out a laugh of triumph. The tentacles followed suit, screeking joyfully. "WE DID IT! IT WORKS!"

Marty and Jennifer ran in from the horse paddock, eyes wide with baffled surprise. "What? What is it?" Marty asked, panting. "Heard you yell. . . ."

Doc gave them his biggest, brightest grin, pointing to the display. "It works!" he repeated. "The new time travel control 'chip' works!"

The teens crowded around him to get a good look. Their jaws dropped as they saw the display lit up. "It – it works?" Jennifer said weakly. "You mean – we can go home?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying!"

Marty and Jennifer gaped at each other. Then, almost simultaneously, their faces broke out into huge grins. "We can go home!" Marty yelled, throwing his arms around his girlfriend. Laughing, Jennifer did the same. "We can finally get out of here! Go back to civilization!" He turned and gave Doc and the tentacles the tightest hug he could manage. "You guys are the greatest!"

"Thank you thank you thank you!" Jennifer cried, squeezing them around the middle.

Doc returned the embrace with the tentacles as he struggled to control his own joy. "All right, all right, let's settle down now," he said, finally getting a hold of himself. "While this is a triumph of the ages, we've only licked one problem. Now we need to solve the one involving momentum."

Marty peered around him toward the DeLorean's rear. "Well, we've got a working gas tank, right? When does this place get a gas station?"

"Not until some time in the next century," Doc said. "Cars go west a lot slower than people. If I remember my history right, there might be one that was recently built in Indiana."

"_Indiana_? How the hell does that help us?"

"Maybe we could order some gas from them?" Jennifer suggested, frowning thoughtfully. "Say it's some sort of emergency?"

"I haven't a clue, but I guess we can–"

"Where is that blacksmith?!"

Everyone jumped, all heads swiveling toward the door. "What the – was that Buford?" Marty asked.

"Certainly sounded like him. . . ." Doc headed to the door and peeked out. Sure enough, he could see the outlaw and his cronies riding around the square. None of them looked very pleased. "Oh Great Scott. . . ."

_**Should we hide, Father? **_Verne asked, his tone indicating that he thought that was a very good idea. _**Anyone who gets Buford that upset is probably not liable to live much longer.**_

Doc shook his head. "No, I think it's better to go outside and confront him directly. If he comes into the shop, he's liable to try and break something – especially if he's upset with me for some reason. And considering we just finished repairing the time circuits on the DeLorean. . . ." The tentacles nodded, a shudder going down their sinuous bodies. "Besides, it's not a guarantee he'll shoot me on sight. It sounds like he wants me to know why he's upset. We might be able to defuse the situation."

_**Do you really think we can do that with a **_**Tannen**_**?**_ Albert asked dubiously.

"We've got to try. We've come too far to let him ruin our chances of getting home now." Doc opened the door and stepped out, the tentacles reluctantly slipping under his coat. Marty and Jennifer followed, holding hands and sharing an anxious glance.

Buford and his gang didn't immediately spot the blacksmith as he approached, too busy circling the square with ugly expressions. Doc noted with surprise that Buford was mounted on a different horse – still black, but obviously not the one he'd worked on. _What happened to his old steed?_

_**Maybe those carrots really did make it too fat for him,**_ Tommy joked, forcing him to resist a smile.

One of the gang finally noticed Doc. "There he is, boss!" he said, jabbing a grimy finger at the blacksmith.

Buford turned his horse around and glared. The look in his eyes made Doc suddenly wish he'd thought to bring some sort of weapon out as insurance. "You owe me money, blacksmith," Buford growled.

"Huh?" Marty said, blinking. "What the hell are you talking about? We never made any deals with you."

"My horse threw a shoe," Buford said, shooting Marty a dirty look before focusing back on Doc. "And seeing as how you were the one who done the shoeing, I say that makes you responsible!"

Ahhh. Doc folded his arms, matching Buford's frown with one of his own. "Well, since you never paid me for the job, I saw that makes us even."

_**Payback's a bitch, asshole, **_Albert added, sounding pleased.

"_Wrong_!" Buford roared. "You see, I was on Blackie when he threw the shoe, and I got throwed off! And _that_ caused me to bust a perfectly good bottle of Fine Kentucky Red-Eye!"

_**Huh. Well, I believe we finally found out where Biff gets his driving habits from,**_ Jules commented.

_Probably,_ Doc agreed. _Like ancestor, like descendant._ "So?" he said.

"So – the way I figure it, blacksmith, you owe me five dollars for the whiskey, and seventy-five dollars for the horse," Buford finished up. "How ya gonna pay?"

"Eighty dollars?!" Marty gasped.

"Why do we owe you for the horse?" Jennifer added, making a face in her confusion.

"Lady has a point," Doc nodded. "Just bring Blackie back and I'll reshoe him."

"I _shot_ him when he throwed me!" Buford snapped.

Doc couldn't help an irritated huff. Wasn't that just like a Tannen? "Then I'll shoe this one!" he said, pointing to the horse Buford currently rode.

"Like hell you will," Buford said. "I'll take my eighty dollars in cash."

"I don't _have_ eighty dollars on me," Doc replied, feeling his temper rising. God damn it, why did Tannens always have to have the worst timing? Buford was ruining his moment of glory more than any lack of fuel ever could. "And frankly, I don't see why I should have to pay for a perfectly good horse that _you_ shot! That is _your_ problem, Tannen!"

Buford scowled deeply and aimed a dirt-encrusted finger at Doc. "No – it's _yours_," he said, voice low and menacing. "I'm getting my money one way or another. So from now on, you'd better be looking behind you when you walk – 'cause one day you're gonna get a bullet in your back!"

With that, Buford whacked his horse on the side and rode off, followed closely by his gang. Doc watched them go, his stomach slowly twisting itself into a knot. On some level, he supposed he'd expected the death threat – as Verne had said, those who pissed Tannen off didn't last long – but that didn't make him any happier about it. He turned back to Marty and Jennifer, who were regarding him with no small amount of shock and anxiety. "Jesus," Marty said. "I thought _I_ was gonna be the one he threatened to shoot first. What are you doing beating me to the punch, Doc?"

Despite everything, Doc couldn't help a small smile at that. "Let's be fair – he probably hates all of us equally." His expression turned serious again. "All joking aside, though, this is about the worst thing that could happen right now."

_**Tell me about it,**_ Jules agreed. _**We need to leave Hill Valley as soon as possible.**_

_**Well, do you have any brilliant plans to solve our fuel problems?**_ Albert inquired, the master of sarcasm as always.

_**No – do you?**_ Jules shot back.

"We don't have time to argue about this," Doc muttered as they all headed back to the shop. "What we need is to put our heads together and come up with a plan that might allow us a quick escape – short of just disappearing into the desert until he gets distracted, of course."

Jennifer tilted her head toward the paddock. "Can we try hitching up Jett, Barbie, and Archimedes? You know, to pull the DeLorean along?"

Doc shook his head. "Wouldn't work for a number of reasons – primarily, because they won't be fast enough."

"They're pretty fast horses, Doc."

"I know, but not even the fastest horse in the world can run more than forty or so miles per hour."

Marty rubbed his chin. "Would trying to round up enough horses to match the horsepower of the engine work?"

Doc shook his head. "Creative thinking, but horsepower doesn't work like that, I'm afraid. And it would be impossible to control a team of that size. Pulling it is just not a viable method of travel. What we _really _need is an alternate source of fuel. Any ideas?"

Marty and Jennifer stared blankly at each other. "Um. . . ."

_**Father – didn't we read somewhere about people who got their cars to run on alcohol? **_Jules put in, chittering._** It might work as a temporary solution. We really need only enough power for one quick burst of speed.**_

"Hmmm." Doc shared a contemplative look with the tentacle. "It's a thought – and something we can procure easily. Can't hurt anything to try."

"Got an idea?" Jennifer asked hopefully.

"Jules does, at least. Let me just make sure our new control deck is securely fastened to the DeLorean's hood, and then I'll stop by the Palace and see if we can put some of Chester's whiskey to better use than drinking it."

Thursday, September 3rd

2:19 P.M.

It actually took a bit longer than Doc expected to get to their experiment. After he'd secured the time circuits, Jules had examined the board and suggested making a better protective cover for them: _**After all, this one doesn't have the advantage of being inside the car. **_And once they'd finished that, things had been further delayed by having to hide everything from a customer who needed some minor repair work on his wagon. And after that, rumbling stomachs had demanded a break for a proper lunch. Finally, with everything else out of the way, Doc managed to make it to the Palace. He returned carrying a large green bottle without a label. "All right, everyone – let's give this a shot. Pun not intended."

Marty and Jennifer eyed the bottle. "What's that?" Marty asked.

"According to Chester, the strongest whiskey he's got," Doc said, turning it carefully in his hands. "He and Joey brew it up themselves. I figured, the stronger the better."

"Bet Chester gave you a funny look when you asked for that," Jennifer commented.

"Everyone in the saloon did, honestly," Doc replied. "I just told them I was experimenting with a new way to keep my forge hotter longer."

"And he still gave you the bottle?" Marty asked, arching an eyebrow. "Last time you tried that, Doc, it didn't go so well."

"I'd never _made_ a Presto-Log before!" Doc said, the tentacles adding their own squawking protests. "And nobody got hurt! The forge didn't even sustain that much damage!"

"Guess not, but still – that was one hell of a bang," Marty replied, smirking. "Too bad Tannen wasn't in town then – you could have scared him off."

"Don't get smart, kid," Doc said, frowning. "I learned from my mistakes – the last two worked fine, didn't they? And I strongly doubt we're going to have any similar incidents with this. We need to try every avenue of interest if we're going to get out of here." He walked toward the DeLorean, Tommy reaching forward to yank off the tarp. "Now come on – I need you to start the engine once I fill the tank."

"Gotcha, Doc." Marty climbed into the driver's seat as Doc opened up the gas flap and uncorked the whiskey. Wrinkling his nose from the strong smell, he tipped the bottle into the tank. "Do you really think it'll work?"

"Only one way to find out." Doc shook the last few drops down the spout. "Try it, Marty."

Marty nodded and turned the key. The engine chugged and spluttered in protest. Marty tried again, eliciting a few more whines – then a grumble as something seemed to catch. Jennifer grabbed the front of her dress while the tentacles chattered at each other. "Oh please, oh please, oh please. . . ."

"Give it more gas," Doc encouraged, all hope. _Jules, I think we've done it!_

_**Come on, car, come on! **_Tommy said, poking the side.

Marty pressed down farther on the pedal. The engine growled, on the verge of life –

BANG! Doc and Jennifer jumped back as something shot off the back of the car in a burst of white light and black smoke. _**What?! What happened?!**_ Verne demanded, wiggling wildly.

_**Something went flying! **_Tommy reached down and grabbed the fallen part, holding it up for Doc to see. _**Look at all those tubes. . . . Is it important?**_

Doc waved away the smoke for a better look, then groaned. "Damn! Damn _damn_!"

_**Uh-oh. That's a "yes," isn't it?**_

"What is it, Doc?" Marty asked, scrambling out of the car.

"It blew the fuel injection manifold," Doc explained, taking the piece from Tommy. "Without it, we don't have a hope of using the engine." He stared at it a moment, then let it drop from his hands with a heavy sigh. "Strong stuff all right – it'll take us about a month to rebuild it."

"A _month_?!" Marty and Jennifer repeated, eyes wide.

"Don't look at me! That hooch peddler must stick more in that stuff than just whiskey!" Doc shook his head, pressing his fist against his eyes. "I'm starting to think I got off lucky with just the hangover from hell when Haney and I switched drinks."

_**Maybe we should have gone with the sarsparilla,**_ Albert muttered.

_**I don't even want to know what might be in that,**_ Verne said, shuddering.

"Doc, we just got the time circuits fixed," Marty pleaded, holding up his hands. "Not to mention Buford Tannen's still got you on his hit list. I can't take this anymore, Doc! I want to go home!"

"So do I, but–"

"Emmett?" Someone knocked on the door. "Are you in?"

Doc cursed softly. "We'll pick this up shortly." The tentacles grabbed the manifold and stashed it in the DeLorean before replacing its cloth and vanishing into Doc's coat. Marty and Jennifer stood guard before it as Doc opened the door. "Hello – oh, Hubert! What brings you by?"

Hubert grinned a pinch nervously at Doc, holding up a note. "Emmett, you remember how, at the town meeting, you volunteered to pick up the new schoolteacher when she arrived?"

"Oh yes, quite so," Doc lied quickly. In fact, he'd completely forgotten about that little chore in his excitement over the DeLorean. _Yet another thing I have to take care of. It just never ends, does it?_

_**I love how he says we "volunteered,"**_ Albert agreed grumpily. _**Politicians. Never trust 'em.**_

"Well, we've just gotten word – she's coming in tomorrow," Hubert said. He extended the note. "Here are all the details, including a map to the schoolhouse."

Doc nodded, accepting the scrap of paper. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_." Hubert touched his hat and headed back to his carriage. On the step, he paused and turned toward Doc again. "Oh – her name's Miss Clayton. Clara Clayton."

"Clara Clayton," Doc repeated. "I'll remember."

Hubert smiled and disappeared from the carriage door. Doc watched as it drove away, then sighed. "Damn it, why now?" he muttered. "If she'd just come a few days earlier. . . ."

_**We keep telling you, it's Brown's Law,**_ Albert said.

"I know, I know. . . ."

"Schoolteacher's coming in?" Marty asked as Doc closed the door.

"Yup. Tomorrow on the eleven o'clock train, according to this," Doc said, skimming over the note. "A Miss Clara Clayton from – New Jersey. Huh. Rather far away."

"Guess she's got a bit of the adventurer in her," Jennifer commented, before smiling. "Clara – that's a pretty name."

Doc grunted. "Nice enough, I suppose. I just hope she's not too inquisitive. Or talkative in general, really."

"What's the matter, Doc? Scared of talking to a girl?" Marty said, gently elbowing him in the ribs.

"No, more completely disinterested," Doc returned. "All I want to do with this new schoolteacher is pick her up and bring her to her cabin. Once she's there, she ceases to be our problem. Then we can get back to the matter of achieving the proper amount of momentum to return to our own time period."

Marty winced, looking back at the shape of the DeLorean hidden beneath its tarp. "Yeah. . .are you _sure_ fixing the fuel thing will take a month?"

"Positive – and that's a conservative estimate. In reality, with such poor tools and not a lot in the way of replacement parts. . . ." Doc sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. I know you kids want to get home. We do too, believe me." The tentacles nodded. "If you've got any suggestions on how we can get the necessary speed, I'm open to them. Anything at all."

Marty and Jennifer looked at each other, faces screwed up in concentration. "Um. . .er. . .damn it, there's gotta be something," Marty muttered. "I really don't want to wait another month for indoor plumbing."

_**Why don't we all sleep on it?**_ Jules suggested, winding around the three. _**Perhaps after a period of rest, our brains will be working at our maximum potential, and we'll be able to formulate new ideas. It's not like we can do much about anything right at this very moment.**_

"You have a point. We're certainly not getting anywhere today," Doc nodded. "Let's give our minds a rest and worry about it tomorrow. Those horses need another brushing anyway."


	8. New Ideas and New Arrival

Chapter 8

Friday, September 4th, 1885

Hill Valley

10:51 A.M.

Sadly, Jules's hypothesis proved to be wrong – after an afternoon of mindless busywork and a full night's sleep, none of them were any closer to coming up with a decent plan. Doc paced circles around the shop, muttering to himself while Marty and Jennifer watched and tried to think up ideas. "If we could only – but then – no, that wouldn't work either – that would take longer than repairing the manifold–"

"Oh, for – why don't we just roll it down a steep hill?" Jennifer finally snapped in frustration.

"We'd never find a smooth enough surface," Doc replied, before slowing. "Unless – ice! We wait until winter, and then when the lake freezes over–"

The look both teenagers gave him shut him up. "Screw. Winter," Marty said, leaving no room for argument in his tone.

"Right," Doc nodded, throwing himself into a nearby chair as the tentacles chittered around him. "Let's think this through logically. We know the DeLorean won't run under its own power." Jules shook his claw. "Nor can we pull it." Verne shook his claw in turn. "So, that leaves us with one option. Is there a way to _push_ it up to 88 miles per hour?"

_**In this time period?**_ Albert asked, flexing his pincers skeptically. _**With what?**_

WHOOOO-WHOOOOO!

Everyone's head swivelled toward the noise. "Must be the 11 o'clock train coming in," Marty commented as Doc got up and approached the window.

Doc nodded, watching as the small form of the engine chugged its way into the train station on the opposite end of the main street. "Early today – engineer must have made good time," he said, brow wrinkling in thought.

Then he beamed. "That's it!"

_**A train?**_ Jules said, taking a quick peek. _**Would that even work?**_

"Modifying the DeLorean for railroad access would be a cinch – cars are already built to the same width as the tracks!" Doc told him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "It's the best option we've got if we don't want to wait around for the fuel injection manifold. Come on, let's go see how viable it is!" He snagged his coat and dashed out the door, Marty and Jennifer following close behind.

The train station was a mass of people and luggage going in all directions, with little groups forming and breaking up as passengers struggled both on and off the cars. Marty, more than used to having to maneuver his way through crowds, took the lead and made it to the locomotive first. "Hey!" he called up to the engineer still sitting at the controls.

"Hey yourself!" the engineer replied as Doc and Jennifer caught up. "Boarding's back there, folks! We don't allow passengers up near the boiler!"

"No, we're not going anywhere – not today, anyway," Marty explained. "We're just curious about how fast a train can go."

"You are?" The engineer seemed a bit puzzled by this, but shrugged and climbed out, wiping his greasy hands off on a rag. "Well, I've had this beauty up to 65 myself. And I hear that Fearless Frank Fargo got one up to near 70 out past Burness Junction."

Marty and Jennifer shared an excited smile. "Great! Do you think you could get one up to, say, 90?" Marty continued, trying to sound casual.

The engineer laughed in disbelief. "90? Tarnation, son, who'd ever be in such a hurry?"

"Oh, it's just a little bet he and I have," Doc said as a cover, examining the locomotive. "Theoretically speaking, could it be done?"

The engineer rubbed his chin thoughtfully, undoing the clean-up job he'd just done. "Well. . .I suppose if you had a long stretch of track with a level grade. . .and you weren't hauling no cars behind you. . .and if you could make the fire hot enough – and I'm talking hotter than the fires of hell and damnation itself – oh, excuse me, miss, didn't see you there," he apologized, suddenly noticing Jennifer's presence.

"It's fine," Jennifer said. "You were saying?"

"Well, anyway, if you had all those things, plus as much luck as you could carry. . .then yes, it might be possible to get her up to 90," the engineer nodded.

Doc gave him a broad smile. _Just the break we need!_ "Great. Tell me, when's the next train come through here?" he asked.

"Monday morning at 8 o'clock," the engineer reported, then chuckled. "But I don't think you'll be able to get it to try out your bet. We've got a schedule to keep, you know."

"Oh, that's just two boys having a laugh," Doc assured him. "You've already given us all the information we need, thank you. Come on, you two." He hurried off, weaving his way through the slowly-thinning crowd over to the map mounted on the side of the station house.

"Wait up, Doc!" Marty called as he and Jennifer rushed to follow. "You can shove people out of the way better than us!"

"What's your big idea?" Jennifer added as they reached him.

"Sorry," Doc said, distracted. "I just had to check something – aha! Here!" He tapped a spot on the map. "Look here – it's a long narrow spur that runs off over Clayton Ravine. _This_ is where we'll push the DeLorean with the locomotive!"

_**That map doesn't say Clayton Ravine,**_ Verne pointed out, the very tip of his claw peeping out briefly from beneath the coat hem. _**It says Shonash Ravine.**_

Doc squinted at the name. "Huh – you're right. Shonash Ravine," he confirmed. "Must be the old Indian name for it." He shrugged and turned his thoughts back to the plan rapidly taking shape in his head. "Whatever the name, this is perfect – a long stretch of level track out in the country, far away from anyone who could mess up our plans."

"Yeah, but where would we end up once we got back to 1986?" Marty asked, adjusting his hat.

Doc studied the map, trying to orient it to his memories of 1986 Hill Valley. "Well, if it goes over the ravine, we'd reappear on the line that goes over the bridge by the Hilldale housing development in our time." He snorted. "Which has a bit of irony to it, given where you two live in the future."

Jennifer nodded, giggling. "Well, sounds great to me, Doc," she said with a wide smile. "Let's get this show on the road!"

Marty, however, was frowning at the map. "Hang on, guys," he said, grabbing Jennifer's sleeve. "According to this–" he tapped the ravine just a few inches from where Doc had pointed "– there is no bridge."

_**Well, there goes that plan,**_ Albert grumbled.

"No, not yet it doesn't," Doc replied, a swell of stubborn determination filling him up. "All this means is that we should go and investigate what _is_ there in this time period, and alter our plans accordingly. Marty, you'll come with me and the kids to check things out. Jennifer, can you mind the shop and tell people we'll be back in a hour or so?"

"Sure thing, Doc – oh!" Jennifer snapped her fingers. "Weren't you supposed to meet someone on this train?"

Doc blinked a few times. "What?"

_**Schoolteacher?**_ Tommy reminded him.

"Oh, right, damn! Miss Clayton! It completely slipped my mind." Doc glanced back at the platform at the milling people. "Getting us back to the future is far more important than picking up a schoolteacher. . .but I suppose I would feel a bit guilty about leaving her stranded. . ." He looked across the road to Joe Statler's place. "You two get back to the shop. I'll be along in a minute."

* * *

_I don't think anyone's coming._

_Oh hush,_ Clara thought, adjusting the collar of her dress. _It's only a few minutes after 11. Perhaps our escort was just delayed on his way here._

_Hmph. If he was any sort of _real_ gentleman, he would have been here to greet us as soon as we stepped off the train. Then again, they probably have no concept of manners this far west. Most likely they scratch themselves in inappropriate places and eat raw meat._

_You're just grumpy from the long train ride,_ Clara informed her passenger._ And who are you to put down anyone for eating raw meat?_

_I'm built to eat it! What's their excuse?_

Clara rolled her eyes. _Look, someone will come fetch us soon, I'm positive. Once we get settled in our new house, you'll feel better._

"Ma'am?"

Clara turned to see a man in a smart-looking jacket approaching her. He tipped his hat. "Are you Miss Clayton?"

Clara smiled. "I am," she said, giving him a quick curtsy. "Are you my escort?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am," the man said with an apologetic shake of the head. "But I've got a message from him." He handed her a note. Puzzled, Clara unfolded it:

_Dear Miss Clayton,_

_I'm terribly sorry to leave you waiting at the station, but something of grave importance came up shortly before you were to arrive that I absolutely have to attend to. I've taken the liberty of renting you a buckboard so you can make the trip to the schoolhouse on your own. Directions on how to get there are on the back. I'm sorry again, and I hope you have a pleasant ride._

_Sincerely,_

_Mr. Wayne_

Oh – well, at least now she had an explanation as to why the clocktower's clock had been picked up before her. "I see," Clara commented, glancing at the deliveryman. "I wonder what happened?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know, but he and his nephew rode out just a couple of minutes ago in an awful rush, so it must be important. I'm well-acquainted with Mr. Wayne, and he wouldn't leave a lady in distress unless it was unavoidable." He tipped his hat again. "Your buckboard's waiting right over here, ma'am. I'd escort you to the schoolhouse myself, but I've got a business to run."

"It's all right. I'm sure I'll manage," Clara told the man, looking at the back of the note. Sure enough, the mysterious Mr. Wayne had provided directions, complete with a scribbled map with the path she needed to follow marked out in thick black. "Thank you for telling me."

"My pleasure, Miss Clayton. Good luck!" The man rushed back across the street, waving at a pair of passers-by. "You there! Need a horse?"

Clara snorted as she headed for her buckboard, parked by the platform – nothing fancy, just your average two-horse conveyance. Still, she was quite sure she could handle it. She located an attendant, and together they got her luggage loaded. "There – all settled," she said with satisfaction as the last trunk was put into place.

_Yeah – no thanks to our 'escort.' I told you he wasn't coming._

_So you did, but give the man _some_ credit,_ Clara replied, tipping the attendant before getting into the driver's seat. _At least he sent along a note to explain. And he rented us the buckboard. I can't say most of the supposed 'gentlemen' I've known would have done as much._

_Still, to just leave us waiting like that. . . ._

_Oh, stop being such a grump,_ Clara scolded, rolling her eyes. _He had an emergency! You can hardly blame him for that. Besides – _a sly smile crossed the schoolteacher's face as she patted her collar – _do we really _need_ an escort looking out for us?_

Anyone who might have bothered to look very, _very_ closely at Miss Clayton just then would have seen the fabric of her dress ripple, as if the clothing itself had let out a silent laugh. _Too true. Let's be off._

* * *

_What was that you said about not needing an escort?!_

Clara was prevented from glaring by her hat falling into her eyes. On the one hand, she supposed it was her fault for tempting fate like that. On the other – _How was I supposed to know we'd run into a rattlesnake?!_ She squeezed the reins in a white-knuckle grip as her horses galloped wildly out of control, refusing to heed a single command. _Can't you grab onto anything, Rosie? Slow us down?_

_There's nothing to grab! I can't even get a good hold on the ground – it's too sandy!_

A unfamiliar surge of fright hit Clara in the stomach. For years, she'd been convinced that Rosie could protect her from any danger that might befall them. But if there was nothing that she could use to anchor them, or pull them off the runaway buckboard. . .well, they were well and truly up the creek without a paddle, weren't they? _At least there's nothing for us to crash into,_ she thought, trying to see the bright side.

_Don't say that! You just know–_

Rosie stopped short, her attention apparently having been pulled elsewhere. _What? What is it?_ Clara asked, half-expecting a bear to be on their tail. It would fit with the rest of this lousy trip.

_There's people over there – by the train tracks!_ Rosie reported. _Two men, it looks like – one tall, one short. If we can get their attention. . .do you think you can scream loud enough?_

_Is that a trick question?_ Clara inflated her lungs to their limit. "Help! Somebody help me! Help!"

The sound of rapid hoofbeats rewarded her efforts. _Yes! I'll see if I can grab hold one of the horses once they get close enough,_ Rosie said.

_Be careful, Rosie. You don't want to hurt them – or be seen._

_Don't worry, I'll be subtle. Though, honestly, given our current circumstances, I doubt they'd even notice._

The hooves drew closer, and were joined by a voice. "Here! Here!"

Clara turned toward it, but couldn't make out the owner – her hat was still in her eyes, stupid thing, and she didn't dare release the reins to adjust it. All she could tell was that it was male. "Hurry!" she beseeched the stranger. _Rosie?_

_Can't – quite reach – just yet. . ._

"Jump!" the voice suddenly yelled.

Jump? For a instant, Clara hesitated, unsure if she could unstick herself from her seat. It seemed a most foolhardy thing to do. But the pure urgency in the man's voice convinced her it was worth the risk. She steadied her nerves, released the reins, and leapt.

A strong arm caught her around her middle and pulled her up onto his horse. Clara felt Rosie send out a few tiny tendrils, sticking them like glue to their savior. _Oh, that was a close one!_

_Closer than you think, Mother,_ Rosie said, sounding shaken.

_Why?_

There was a sudden crash of wood against rock scant feet in front of them. Managing to tip back her brim just enough to peek out from under it, Clara was horrified to see the buckboard go over the edge of a huge ravine. _Oh my God! If – if this man hadn't been here to catch us, we – we'd–_

_I know!_ Rosie rippled with fear. _I'm so sorry I couldn't help more. I tried, I really did. . ._

_It's all right, Rosie. Not your fault,_ Clara soothed her, smoothing out her skirt. _Just be grateful this man was here at just the right moment!_

Speaking of which, she ought to thank her rescuer, shouldn't she? She turned toward the man, pushing back her hat so she could finally get a proper look at him. "Oh, thank you sir," she said as she got herself settled. "You saved my–"

She stopped dead. Looking back at her was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was tall, with a long face and a shock of white hair that hinted at old age. But his eyes were young – big chocolate brown, just like you'd see on a puppy dog. Looking into them, Clara felt her heart melt. "Life," she breathed, wishing this moment would last forever.

With a happy jolt, she realized he was staring back at her in the exact same way. He doffed his hat, pressing it to his chest. "Emmett B-_Wayne_ at your service, miss."

Clara didn't even notice the stutter, too caught up in the warm feelings coursing through her veins. Emmett – what a wonderful name. Earthy, but elegant. She could say it to herself for hours. She – she should really tell him hers, but she was having such trouble concentrating. . . . "I'm – I'm–" Her hat dropped into her eyes again, jolting her out of her little reverie. "Clayton!" she blurted at last, pushing it back. "Clara Clayton."

"Clara?" Emmett's face lit up with the brightest smile in the world. "What a beautiful name."

Clara's heart melted all over again. She'd always been rather skeptical about the idea of love at first sight – especially with her wedding-obsessed parents shoving suitors on her back home. But now – now she was a true believer. She knew deep in her guts that she wanted that smile to light up the rest of her days. _Oh, Emmett. . . ._

_Mother? Mother, are you all right? You're acting strange. . . Moth-eerrr!_

* * *

_**Fath-errr!**_

_**Your brain chemistry has gone all wonky – are you all right?**_

_**Father?**_

_**Hey Father!**_

_I'm fine,_ Doc answered the tentacles absently. His attention was fixed on the woman in front of him. And what a wonderful woman she was! What had he been thinking, not meeting her at the station? Shoving her on a buckboard and letting her find her own way to the schoolhouse? An unpleasant chill went through him as he thought about what would have happened had he not been examining the train tracks at the ravine with Marty. God forbid such a horrible thing happen to Clara!

"Hey, are you two okay?"

Marty's voice managed to yank Doc out of his reverie. The teenager was watching them from his horse, frowning in concern. "We're fine," Doc said, then peered over the edge of the ravine. "Though I believe poor Miss Clayton has lost her luggage."

"Oh, no, look," Clara said, pointing out some bundles and boxes balanced precariously on the lip of the rock. "It looks like the buckboard dumped some of its load before going over." She gasped, clutching her collar. "My telescope! Is it in there?"

"Let's see," Doc said, dismounting. He offered his hand to Clara, who took it delicately. Even through her glove, Doc could feel the warmth of her skin, sending tingles up his spine. His fingers lingered on hers as she got off Archimedes, reluctant to let her go.

_**What is **_**with**_** you? **_Tommy demanded.

_I'm being a gentleman. We can't just leave a lady in distress now, can we?_

_**You know holding onto her like that is a major faux pas in this time,**_ Albert reminded him. _**She's gonna complain.**_

_Right. . ._ Doc released her hand with a sigh and started poking through what remained of her luggage. Clara and Marty joined in, moving a few of the more unstable boxes away from the cliff. "Aha! I think this is it," he said after a minute's search, holding up a long thin box.

"That it is," Clara said, taking it and hugging it to her chest. "Oh, I'm so glad. I've had this ever since I was a little girl."

"Glad it didn't go over," Marty said, picking through the remaining bundles. "Looks like you lost a bunch of your clothes, though," he added, giving her a sympathetic look.

"Better than losing this," Clara said, smiling. Doc's heart skipped a beat. Oh, that was a smile that inspired poetry. Or perhaps a song? "I can always buy more dresses."

"Yeah, guess that's true." Marty glanced up at his friend. "What do we do now, Doc?"

"Find the buckboard horses, then help Miss Clayton to her house," Doc decided immediately. "Maybe later we can get some people along to see if anything's salvageable from the ravine floor."

"Don't go to too much trouble," Clara said, frowning. "I don't want anyone getting hurt. One close call today is enough."

This was a reasonable objection, Doc supposed, but he couldn't help replying, "For you, Miss Clayton, nothing's too much trouble."

Clara blushed and lowered her eyes. "You're too kind, Mr. Wayne. And please, call me Clara."

_**Wait, what?**_ Albert said, puzzled. _**Isn't that – **_

_Oh, be quiet._ "All right – Clara," he said, resisting the urge to giggle like a schoolboy as the name passed his lips. "And you can call me Emmett."

The runaway horses fortunately weren't far from the crash site, having finally tired themselves out. Doc and Marty loaded one of them up with the majority of what remained of Clara's luggage, with Marty taking a few extra things on Joan. Clara mounted the other, and with that, the little group was off to the schoolhouse. Doc and Clara rode beside each other, content to just look at each other in friendly silence. Words, however nice, would ruin this all-too-perfect moment. Doc could feel Marty staring at him, but he ignored the young man's eyes. He'd heard the story of how Marty and Jennifer had met dozens of times from the two – hell, he'd seen up close and personal how lovesick Marty had been those first few days. His friend knew very well what it was like to meet the woman of your dreams. He should stop acting so surprised.

Less easy to dismiss were the voices of the tentacles. Tommy was still asking what the hell was going on, Albert was muttering about all the broken rules of 19th century propriety, Jules was going on about fluctuations in his brain chemistry, and Verne was simply asking him repeatedly if he was really all right. It was rather irritating, but Doc tried to cut them some slack. His discussions with them about love and relationships had been few and far between, and almost always centered around Marty and Jennifer's experiences with the emotion. It wasn't too surprising they wouldn't recognize it in him. He'd explain everything properly once Clara was all settled in and they were on their way back home. Right now, all he really wanted to do was gaze upon the vision of loveliness riding beside him.

After what was probably a decently-long ride (that still felt far too short for Doc's tastes), they reached the schoolhouse with its little cabin. Clara was the first to approach it, opening the door and taking a look around as Doc and Marty brought her things up to the front porch. "May I help you inside with these?" Doc asked, doffing his hat again.

Clara turned to face him, holding up a hand. "Oh, no, that's not necessary. I can manage."

"But it's really no trouble," Doc insisted, not quite prepared to leave Clara's company just yet.

Unfortunately, it appeared Marty was. "Doc," he said firmly, lugging up the last of the bundles, "she says she can handle it! And we really need to get going. Jennifer's probably wondering where we are." He dumped the luggage on the porch, then shook Clara's hand. "Nice to meet you, ma'am. Good luck with the schoolteaching and all."

Doc couldn't help a frown as Clara thanked the teen. Marty was being awfully abrupt. Then again, he had a point that they'd been away longer than anticipated. Jennifer probably _was_ starting to worry about them. And Doc could feel the tentacles itching to speak with him. There was still one matter that had to be addressed, though. "Clara – I'll straighten everything out with Mr. Statler and the buckboard, don't you worry about that." A twinge of guilt twisted his stomach. "I feel somewhat responsible for what happened."

Clara gave him another smile. God, could that woman smile! If he could just capture it in a bottle and carry it next to his heart. . . . "Thank you. I understand you had some urgent business to attend to – with the railroad?" Doc nodded, hiding another pinch of conscience. "But still, that would be very gentlemanly of you, Mr. Wayne – Emmett."

Oh wow. He had never realized "Emmett" could sound that good. Doc beamed back at her, feeling like he had liquid sunshine in his veins.

Unfortunately, he could also feel Marty's eyes boring into him, and the tentacles tugging at his brain. With a soft sigh, he nodded and started toward his horse. "Goodbye then, Clara."

"Goodbye – I _will_ see you again, won't I?" Clara suddenly called, voice nervous and hopeful.

Doc turned around, happy for the small delay. "Of course – you'll be seeing lots of me," he assured her. "I have a shop in town. I'm the local scientist – ah, _blacksmith_." Oops. What was it about her that made his mouth run ahead of his thoughts?

However, it appeared this particular mistake was a good one – Clara was regarding him with sudden deep intrigue. "Science? What sort of science?" she asked, moving forward. "Astronomy? Chemistry?"

"Actually, I'm a student of all sciences," Doc replied, slowly closing the gap between them. He'd known Clara was intelligent – her being a schoolteacher proved that – but a fellow science wonk? _Of course, I should have guessed that from her worry over her telescope,_ he thought, annoyed at his many women back here made a habit of stargazing? It was just – neither of the other women he'd had an interest in had shared his passion for science. He should have known straightaway dear, sweet Clara would be different –

"Doc." Marty's voice hinted that his patience was pretty much at its end. "We've gotta get going."

The tentacles were getting restless too, grumbling in a way Doc half-expected to be audible. Doc nodded – time to leave. "Yes," he admitted, walking backwards so he didn't have to take his eyes off her just yet. "We have to get–" His legs collided with her gate, nearly making him fall over. "Going!" He made it through and gave her a final wave. "Toodle-loo."

Clara giggled and waved back. Doc finally managed to turn away from her and get on his horse. Resisting the urge to look back one last time, he rode away, Marty following.

Once they were out of sight, the tentacles popped out from underneath his coat, chittering in annoyance. _**What in the name of Sir Isaac H. Newton was that all about?**_ Jules demanded, poking his head.

_**Why were you acting so strange?**_ Verne asked.

_**You didn't even care about that lady before!**_ Tommy agreed. _**You didn't even want to pick her up!**_

**Toodle-loo?** Albert asked disbelievingly.

Doc blushed, embarrassed. "I couldn't think of anything else!" he told Albert. "And as for the rest of you – well – a man's allowed to change his mind, and–"

"If they're asking what you meant by saying you'll be seeing lots of her, I'm with them," Marty spoke up.

"Well, I'll probably see her again just in passing," Doc said, trying to play it cool.

_**Bullshit,**_ the tentacles chorused, not buying it.

_**You were utterly fascinated by her – your brain chemistry said so,**_ Jules added. _**It was most peculiar.**_

"Well, I had to make sure she was all right. And I don't deny she was rather attractive," Doc admitted. "I'm allowed to look, aren't I?"

_**That was more than just looking!**_

"Yeah, you were looking all right," Marty said, smiling and shaking his head. "And she was looking at you the same way."

Doc smirked at him. "Oh come on – she had quite a scare. After all, Cl – Miss Clayton almost ended up at the bottom of Clayton Ravine."

_**Yes, all right, we'll give you – CLAYTON RAVINE?!**_

Doc's eyes went wide as the tentacles squealed in shock. "Oh my – Great Scott! I wasn't even thinking – Clara _Clayton_, _Clayton_ Ravine. . .damn it, damn it. . . ."

_**Okay, everyone, let's not panic, **_Jules said, attempting to stay calm and authoritative despite the shake in his mental voice. _**There are plenty of Claytons in the world. Just because she has an appropriate last name doesn't mean that – well –**_

"Perhaps not, but – Marty, do you know anything about why Clayton Ravine is named that?" Doc demanded of his friend.

Marty nodded, grimacing. "Yeah, and you're not gonna like it, guys. Clayton Ravine was named after a schoolteacher. They say she fell in over a hundred years ago – that'd be this year, right?" Doc nodded weakly. "And before you ask, I'm positive that's how it goes. Every kid in school knows that story because we've all had teachers we'd like to see fall into the ravine."

_**LET'S PANIC!**_ Jules yelled, flailing.

"Oh God," Doc whispered, pulling his horse up short. "So she was supposed to go over in that wagon, and–" He took a deep breath. "And now, I may have seriously altered history."

_**And after trying our best to be extra-extra-careful!**_ Tommy complained, wriggling in anger. _**How bad is that?!**_

_**At least we know why nobody volunteered to pick her up at the town meeting now,**_ Verne said disconsolately. _**Nobody was **_**supposed**_** to.**_

Marty fidgeted awkwardly in his saddle, clearly struggling with what, if anything, to say. "Look, guys," he finally spoke up. "We've been here for two months, and we've done okay. None of the future stuff we've brought back with us has changed at all – that would happen if we'd seriously screwed things up, right? And, really, what's the worst thing that could happen? So they don't name the ravine after her – big deal! Won't stop younger me from wishing Strickland would get stuck down there."

"Marty, you don't understand," Doc said, waving a hand. "There is now someone _else _in this time period who shouldn't be here. And unlike us, she has no idea she's not supposed to be a part of this timestream. Anything she does could change the timeline in a million different ways. She's teaching the next generation of citizens here when she shouldn't be – who knows how that will affect things? And what if, God forbid, she falls in love or gets married?" He dropped his head to his chest, the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Great Scott. . . ."

_**Father – Father, we – we don't have to – to push her in, do we?**_ Tommy chittered, claw held tight around his camera.

"No!" Doc burst out, making Tommy jerk back. "Perhaps I'm not the most law-abiding person, and this is a big problem, but I'm not going to resort to outright _murder_! I could never! And I doubt any of you could either."

_**We **_**did**_** dangle Biff Tannen over the roof of his Pleasure Paradise,**_ Albert felt the need to point out.

". . .Yes, we did," Doc allowed, wincing a little at the memory. Had he really let his emotions get away from him like that? Of course, Biff _had_ just tried to murder one of his best friends. . .but still. "We probably took getting information out of him a bit far. . .but none of you had any actual intentions of dropping him, did you?"

The tentacles all shook their claws hard. "Right. Let's not start turning into the actual Doctor Octopus. For all his intelligence in any number of scientific fields, he did some incredibly stupid things. I'd prefer not to follow in his footsteps."

"Yeah, nobody wants that," Marty agreed. "Guys, look. You've said yourselves we can't do anything about any changes to history until we get home and fix the DeLorean. So let's concentrate on that for now, okay? Worry about time exploding later."

Doc nodded, then scowled off into the distance. It all came back to that accursed car, didn't it? His greatest invention before the tentacles, and what did it do for them? Worry, fear, and riding the ragged edge of nonexistence. "I wish I'd never invented that infernal time machine," he muttered. "It's caused nothing but disaster."

With that, he spurred his horse into motion, setting off for the shop. Marty trailed behind him, shaking his head. "Great. . .Jennifer is going to _flip_ when she hears this."

* * *

Really_, Mother. What was that all about?_

Clara did her best not to blush as she pulled the cabin door closed behind her. "I was just being polite," she replied as casually as she could, carrying her boxes into the middle of what passed for a living room.

_Mother – I can see into your head. If that was just being polite, you treated all those suitors back East a lot more rudely than anyone thought._

Well, so much for not blushing. At least there was no one around to see her head turn as pink as a strawberry. "I – I couldn't help myself!" she said, twisting her hands together. "He's just so brave and smart and wonderful. . . ." She sighed dreamily, picturing those warm brown eyes again. Oh, if only she could have spent more time looking into them. . . .

_You just met him!_ Rose rippled in annoyed confusion. _You barely know anything about him!_

"I know that he's kind, and intelligent – he's a scientist! How many of those do you actually find out here?" She turned her gaze to the ceiling. "Oh, I hope he has an interest in astronomy. I'd love to talk stars and planets with him."

_Mother, your total time interacting with him adds up to less than a hour,_ Rosie stated with a huff. _Not to mention he's the one who _should_ have picked us up in the first place and didn't. Why do you like him so much?_

"Rosie, have you already forgotten the man saved our lives?" Clara retorted, putting her hands on her hips.

The symbiote sagged slightly. _All right, that's true enough. I'm sorry if I seem rather grumpy – it's just so peculiar. You've never felt this way about any other man. Believe me, I know._

"Emmett's not any other man," Clara said, feeling another brilliant smile spread across her face. "He's a sweetheart. Completely different from those idiots back in New Jersey that Mother and Father kept forcing on me."

_You don't know that for sure yet._

"I can hypothesize. Can you really see someone like Bittern or Southern being that concerned about my luggage after our little misadventure? Or escorting us to the schoolhouse even though he apparently had urgent business to attend to?"

_Well, no. . .but Mother – what happens if he finds out about me? If you two do become involved, you're going to have to tell him at some point._

Clara's face fell. Oh dear – that was a good point, wasn't it? If she and Emmett really did end up having a proper relationship, there was no way she could hide her symbiote from him forever. Rosie was good at disguising herself, and it wasn't like she couldn't survive a short while separated from her host, but sooner or later he'd notice something odd and the truth would come out. What if he didn't accept Rosie? What if he thought Clara was a freak for allowing this to happen to herself? Despite how nice he seemed, it was a very real possibility.

She ran a hand over her "dress," watching as the pattern faded into the symbiote's natural black. Would Emmett even be able to understand what had happened to her when she was a child? How she and Rosie had bonded in a desperate bid for survival? Would he demand that she get rid of the symbiote? She wasn't even sure that was possible, not without killing Rosie outright – and even if it was, she wasn't going to give up her closest friend for a man, no matter _how_ wonderful. But the very idea of not seeing Emmett again – losing those big brown eyes, that warm generous smile, forever. . . . "We'll – we'll cross that bridge when we get to it," she decided, not wanting to dwell on such things. As Rosie said, she'd only just met the man. Faults that could make the whole issue moot could show up at any time. And if they didn't, well, it wasn't like he was going to propose tomorrow. "Come on, let's unpack and get ourselves settled."

The pair worked together to get the boxes and bundles open and everything put in its proper place – Clara using her hands, Rosie thick black tentacles extended from her back. It took only about a hour to get the cabin looking like home. _Imagine how long it would have taken me on my own,_ Clara thought as she and Rosie rearranged some of the trinkets on the fireplace mantel. _Just one of the many benefits of having an alien be almost a part of your body._

Finally, everything was in place except for her telescope. Clara picked up the case gingerly, her guts twisting themselves into anxious knots. This telescope was her most prized possession, having been with her for years – ever since she'd found Rosie, in fact. The idea of it being broken. . . . "Please don't be damaged," she mumbled, finally finding the courage to undo the latches.

The telescope lay quietly on its bed of velvet, looking no worse for wear from its little tumble. Still, outside appearances didn't count for much for such a delicate instrument. Clara picked it up and peered through the eyepiece.

The door to her bedroom was a mass of brown blurs. Clara scowled, resisting the urge to slam the telescope against the table. "And of _course_ everything's fuzzy! Now what do I do? Where could I even go to get it–"

"_I'm the local scientist. . . ."_

Rosie paused in her arranging of the bookshelf. _Mother? Is everything all right? I'm sure we can fix the telescope ourselves if we have to. . . ._

Clara smiled slyly. "Oh, I don't think we will," she said, slipping it back in its box. "After all, we just met someone who already seems to have an interest in this sort of thing. A quick trip to Emmett's blacksmith shop should solve everything."

_Mooo-theeer!_

"What?" Clara gave Rosie a calculated innocent look. "Emmett's a scientist. He might see something I don't." More seriously, she added, "And it'll give us a opportunity to get to know him a little better. See if – if there could be something between me and him."

Rosie let out a defeated sigh. _Fine. We'll go see your blacksmith._ She wriggled with displeasure as Clara set the possibly-broken telescope aside and headed to check on the bedroom. _Guess I'll have to be the responsible one from now on. . . ._


	9. Love Is In The Air

Chapter 9

Saturday, September 5th, 1885

Hill Valley

12:49 P.M.

"Testing one two, one two, one two three – can you hear me, Jennifer?"

"Copy that, Marty. Or roger that. Whatever you're supposed to say."

Marty grinned over at Doc and the kids, bent over a nearby table. "Success, Doc! These things still work! You owe me a dollar."

"Yes, yes," Doc said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "Can you really blame me for wondering, though? Batteries do decay."

"Well, it's all loud and clear from my side," Jennifer reported from the bed, holding up her handset. "Or as clear as these things get, anyway."

"I think we're set, Doc," Marty agreed.

"Great." Doc ran a practiced eye over his model as Verne placed the last little tree. "Now that we've established our communications system works, I can explain my plan for getting us home. Come on over here and take a look."

Jennifer and Marty obliged, heading to the far end of the table where Doc and the tentacles had been working so diligently. The entire surface had been converted into a miniature replica of the train line that led to the ravine, composed of various bits and pieces the scientist had scavenged from the shop and the landscape around it. Doc waved a hand over the buildings and tracks. "Please excuse the crudity of this model, it's–"

"Yeah, it's not to scale," Marty interrupted with a smirk. "It's okay, Doc."

_**But it still doesn't look right!**_ Verne protested, fussing with the scenery. _**If we had just a little more time. . .and maybe a few more bits of scrub for here and here, and a chance to make that hill a little bigger. . . .**_

_**Obsessive much, Verne?**_ Albert mocked.

"_Anyway_," Doc said loudly, hoping to forestall the argument threatening to burst in his head, "here's what we've worked out. At eight o'clock Monday morning, a train going to San Francisco will arrive at the Hill Valley station. After it leaves said station, it will follow this line." Verne pointed to a stretch of track at the start of the model, then began making minute adjustments. "Leave it, Verne. Over _here–_" Tommy pointed this time "– is the switch track that leads to the incomplete bridge stretching out over Clay–" Doc stopped and swallowed "– _Shonash_ Ravine. So – Sunday night, we load up the DeLorean here." Tommy grabbed a little toy DeLorean they'd fashioned out of wood and put it on the tracks just beyond the switch. "Monday morning, we ride out down the line a bit, wait for the train–" Jules started a crude little locomotive running around the turn "–stop it right before it hits the switch track, and then we hijack–" he grinned "– _borrow_ the locomotive and use it to push the DeLorean."

"Wait, what about the passenger cars?" Jennifer asked, holding up a hand. "Are we just going to leave them stranded? Won't that change history in a big way?"

"I've been trying to figure out the optimal method for getting around that," Doc said, scratching his head. "The best I've come up with so far is sending an anonymous tip to the station that hijackers may be after one of the trains late Sunday afternoon. Means we'll have to deal with an engineer who's on the alert, but I'm sure the tentacles will be able to handle that." They nodded, clacking their claws. "I briefly considered bribing another engineer to come along after we leave and pick the passengers up, but there's too much risk he'd simply take the money and rat us out. We're already running a worrying chance of getting our names in the history books without making things worse." He sighed deeply. "I don't like it, but given this is our best chance of getting home with any speed, we'll just have to plow on through."

"And keep our fingers crossed," Marty nodded.

"Exactly." Doc used a finger to roll the toy DeLorean along the tracks. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand. We take the locomotive and use it to push the DeLorean, getting the boiler to the appropriate pressure using some of my homemade Presto logs. According to my calculations, we should reach 88 miles per hour just before we hit the edge of the ravine, transporting us instantly back to 1986–" Verne grabbed the DeLorean as it reached the end of the track and sent it flying over thin air "– and allowing us to coast safely across the completed bridge."

Marty and Jennifer glanced at each other, a curious mix of hope and worry on their faces. "You're sure it's safe, Doc?" Jennifer asked.

"Jules and I have been over the equations three times, and it always works out the same. It's as safe as it's going to get."

Marty squinted at the model. "What's this mean?" he asked, pointing to a sign Doc had lettered in white paint on a spare book and leaned against a windmill adjacent to the track. "'Point of No Return?'"

"That's our failsafe point," Doc explained. "Up until then, we still have enough time to stop the locomotive if there's a problem. But once we pass that windmill, it's the future or bust!"

"Very reassuring, Doc," Jennifer commented, chewing her lower lip.

"You're the ones who don't want to wait until winter." Doc grinned, patting her shoulder. "Would a little demonstration help? I've got a crude battery right here."

"This thing's motorized?" Marty said, sounding quite impressed.

"Wait until you see it in action." Verne set the car and train back into place while Doc and Albert hooked up the terminals that would make the train go. Doc gave the activation lever a yank, and with a little whistle, the toy locomotive chugged forward. "Train leaving the station," Doc reported as they all watched it go around. "Coming up to the switch track – throw switch! Coming up to the DeLorean. . . ." The front of the train bumped into the rear of the toy car, then began shoving it along. "Pushing the DeLorean. . .up to 88 miles per hour–!"

The two models raced along the track as Doc pulled the lever up to full power. Tommy reached out and caught the DeLorean just before it could go over the edge of the table. The train continued on, crashing into a pillow Doc had set below. The tentacle presented it proudly to Jennifer as Doc smiled. "See? Couldn't be simp–"

"Don't say it!" Jennifer cried.

Doc blinked, startled. "What?"

"It's a jinx," Jennifer said, folding her arms. "Every time you say something will be simple or easy, it isn't."

"She's got a point," Marty agreed.

Doc frowned at them. "I'm aware that this plan might run into a few issues – having it go perfectly is a near-impossibility. But I doubt I can attract more potential problems just by talking!"

Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. "Hello?"

Doc froze, then shot a glare at a smirking Jennifer. "That means nothing," he said through clenched teeth.

_**Hang on – is that Miss Clayton?**_ Jules asked, tentacle raised in a questioning S.

"Clara?" Doc's annoyance vanished as he ran to check. Sure enough, she was visible through the slats, waiting patiently at the door in a pink-and-white-striped dress that reminded Doc a bit of a candy cane. His heart gave a leap of joy, ignoring the more rational parts of his brain trying to remind him what a problem her being alive actually was. "It is! I didn't expect to see her again so soon!"

"She must have tracked you down," Marty said, then frowned. "Just like my mom with me. . ._weird_ how we keep living the same stuff over and over again."

"Indeed," Doc agreed, not wanting to linger on his sense of deja-vu. Clara was outside, and he was damned if he was going to keep her waiting any longer. His head snapped to the time machine, sitting out in plain sight thanks to a few last-minute tweaks. "Speaking of which, help me cover the DeLorean!"

Marty grabbed the tarp and threw it over the car, Doc pulling it the rest the way. The tentacles zipped under Doc's coat as Jennifer dropped the toy DeLorean and kicked it under the table. Doc did a quick spin to make sure nothing else suspicious was on display, then took a deep breath and opened the door.

Clara gazed up at him, smile sweet as sugar if a touch shy. "Hello."

"Hello," Doc said, doing his best not to get too caught up in her eyes. "Won't you come in?"

"Thank you. I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said as she slipped through the door around him.

"Oh, no. We were just doing some model railroad," Doc said, waving a hand at the table. "Bit of a hobby. . ."

"Ah." Clara nodded at Marty. "Hello again, Mr. Eastwood."

"Hello, ma'am," Marty said, nodding back. He put an arm around Jennifer and pulled her close. "This is Jennifer Streisand. She's my fiancee."

"Pleasure to meet you," Jennifer said, dropping a quick curtsy.

"Likewise," Clara said. "Your fiancé and Mr. Wayne saved my life the other day."

The three managed to avoid wincing. "They told me," Jennifer replied, doing her best to smile. "I'm very glad they were there."

"So am I," Clara said, glancing back at Doc.

"So are we," Doc replied, easily able to shove his worries about her effect on the space-time continuum to the side in the light of that smile. A sudden wave of concern hit him, prompting him to add, "How are you?" She seemed well enough, but – well, nearly falling into a ravine was a traumatic experience no matter how you sliced it.

"Just fine," Clara assured him, before holding up a familiar slim case. "Although my telescope _did_ get damaged slightly in the fall, unfortunately. I was hoping, since you mentioned being a man of science, that you could fix it." She fiddled with the handle a moment. "I would pay you–"

Force Clara to pay? Especially for something that was for all intents and purposes his fault? "Oh, no," Doc cut her off, waving his hands. "I would never dream of charging you for this." He took the case from her before she could protest. His fingers brushed the side of her hand, sending a tingle shooting up his arm. Her skin was so soft. . ._no, no, she's a customer. Have to be professional. _"Well, let's have a look."

He led Clara over one of the worktables in the back while Marty and Jennifer moved aside. Doc did his best to ignore their suspicious looks. This wasn't anything to be suspicious about, was it? He was just doing a favor for this woman. This exquisite, loving, intelligent woman. . . .

_**Your brain chemistry has altered significantly again,**_ Jules said in a resigned voice. _**Is that going to happen every time she comes around?**_

_**Probably,**_ Albert said, with the sense that he'd roll his eyes if he had any. _**Really, Father, you barely even know her. You shouldn't be feeling anything this strong yet.**_

_Hush – I'm helping a customer. _Doc popped open the case to reveal a brass telescope – not anything fancy, but elegant in its simplicity. He picked it up and put it to his eye, squinting as he tried to determine the problem. Everything seemed to be in working order. . . .

"I think a lens may be out of alignment," Clara said from beside him, reaching up to adjust the instrument. "Because when you turn the telescope this way, the image turns fuzzy, see?" Doc nodded slightly – yes, the shop was now a blur of color. "But if you turn it the – other way. . . ."

Doc's eyes snapped wide open. Clara was standing so close to him, he could feel her breath on his neck. He hadn't had a woman be so near him in ages. His skin seemed hyper-sensitive to her presence, like a constant charge of static electricity. "Everything. . .becomes. . .clear," he finished for her, voice hoarse as he dropped the telescope and turned to face her. Their eyes locked again, and suddenly nothing in the world mattered quite as much as those warm pools of brown. Not the telescope, not the shop, not even the space-time continuum.

On the edges of his hearing, he picked up a soft groan from Marty. "Oh, for. . .is this payback for all the times we've gotten goofy around him?"

"Maybe," Jennifer's voice said. "Though I don't know if we've ever gotten that goofy."

"I dunno, Jen – we were pretty goofy when we first met. Hell, I think we had some of the same staring contests."

"Yeah, okay, true," Jennifer allowed with a giggle. "I'd say this is kind of cute, but–" Her voice dropped. "Well, you know. . . ."

"Right. Better do something before they stare each other to death." With that, Marty coughed a couple of times.

Doc would have ignored the teen just on principle if not for the fact that, at that exact same moment, Tommy said, _**Oh, just smooch already!**_ and gave him a subtle prod in the buttocks. Startled, Doc broke his gaze, turning to the side as his cheeks flushed. Clara did the same. Doc was about to assure her that she had no reason to be embarrassed when –

When he could have sworn he saw Clara's dress _ripple_ all on its own.

He blinked, then tilted his head. What the – had a breeze stirred the garment? He hadn't felt anything. . .and the motion had looked strangely organic. As if the dress itself was a living thing. But that was absolutely ridiculous – whoever heard of living cloth?

_**Yeah, well, we're pretty weird too,**_ Verne pointed out.

_Maybe so, but you're also from a time period that makes things like you possible. There's no way Clara could have any access to futuristic fabrics._ He peered hard at the gown. It lay flat against his beloved's skin, refusing to do anything else peculiar. Clara herself didn't seem to have noticed anything unusual either. _Must have been a trick of the light,_ Doc decided, and put it out of his mind, turning his attention back to her telescope. "Doesn't seem to be a major issue. I can fix it this afternoon and have it ready for you tonight," he told Clara with a smile. Hell, he was certain he could fix it right now if she gave him a couple of minutes – but he also knew he couldn't be sure that he'd be able to keep his mind on his work with her standing right there. The teens and the tentacles had given him enough flack over his feelings for one day.

Clara, however, was frowning. "Oh – but tonight is the town festival," she said. "I couldn't ask you to work then." Her expression turned hopeful. "You _are_ going, aren't you?"

Doc hadn't planned on it before now. Marty and Jennifer had expressed an interest in attending briefly, just to sample the food and take in a bit of the local music, but he preferred to shun such social events. Too much risk of the tentacles being found out. But if Clara was going to be there. . . . "Yes, of course – the festival," he grinned. "I'll fix it up this afternoon and return it to you then, how's that?"

Marty and Jennifer stared at him while the tentacles mentally squeaked at each other in surprise. Clara, on the other hand, favored him with another sunshine smile. "Perfect. I'll see you at the festival, then." She dropped a small curtsy, then nodded at Marty and Jennifer. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Eastwood. And meeting you, Miss Streisand."

"Same here, ma'am," Marty replied absently, still eying Doc. "We'll see you tonight."

"Til tonight, yes." Clara turned and headed for the door. Just as she reached it, however, she looked back, obviously trying to stretch out her goodbye as much as possible. "Thank you for fixing my telescope."

"You're quite welcome." Doc watched with a pang as Clara finally exited the shop. Why did she have to leave so quickly? If only they could have had a real conversation. . .or he would have even been satisfied with just looking at her some more, taking in those waves of curly brown hair, those big shining eyes, that cute pert nose, those perfectly-formed rosy lips. . . .

"It's a nice telescope."

Doc snapped out of his trance to find Marty frowning hard at him, while Jennifer seemed torn between annoyance and giggles in the background. "Yes, it is," he agreed, trying to hide his sudden awkwardness by placing it carefully on the table. "Shame it got damaged in the fall."

The tentacles poked their claws out from under his coat hem, chittering disapprovingly. _**Father, you are acting in the most illogical manner yet,**_ Jules scolded. _**This woman is a problem to be solved, not a potential love interest.**_

Doc frowned at the tentacle. "Clara is not a math equation."

Marty blinked. "Huh?"

"Nothing, just – I know it's an issue that's she's alive, but I – she–"

_**Why didn't you kiss her?**_ Tommy cut in.

"Being poked in the behind rather ruins the mood," Doc informed him.

_**And besides, Tommy, you shouldn't be **_**encouraging**_** such behavior!**_ Jules added.

_**But she makes Father happy! And she's nice enough. Don't you like her?**_

_**I have no quarrel with any facet of her personality so far. The problem is simply that she's not supposed to be alive in this temporal period! And Father forgets that fact every time he sees her face!**_

Doc groaned. "Look, I'm aware that we're in a rather precarious position regarding the space-time continuum," he said, looking from the tentacles back to Marty. "But – ever since I first met her, she – we–"

Marty's expression softened into sympathy. "You can't think about anything _but_ her? The first time your eyes met, it was like you'd been hit by lightning?"

"Yes! Exactly!" Doc said, windmilling his arms from relief. "Though I wouldn't use that particular metaphor. But you understand, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess I do," Marty said, glancing over his shoulder to exchange a loving look with Jennifer. Then he sighed and turned back to Doc. "But Doc – forgetting the whole 'she's supposed to be dead' thing for a sec, we're gonna be leaving on Monday. This ain't the best time for romance."

Doc pressed his face into his hand. "I know," he admitted with a long sigh. "I shouldn't let my heart rule my head like this. I'll – I'll try to explain things to her at the festival."

"_**Do or not do – there is no try,"**_ Verne told him._** As a famous Muppet once said.**_

_**We know you don't want to do it, Father,**_ Albert added. _**But you haven't really got a choice.**_

Doc shook his head, trying to ignore just how much the facts made his heart ache. "Right. Come on, kids – we need to make sure the DeLorean's all ready to go for tomorrow."

* * *

_Mother, really!_

_Don't "Mother, really" me,_Clara replied, holding her head high as she walked down the street. _My telescope is damaged – I told you that last night. I had a perfectly legitimate reason to go visit him. You agreed with me then._

_That was before I heard the reason! Legitimate my nonexistent foot – you just wanted an excuse to see him again!_

_Now Rosie, I think I'm allowed to get anything of mine that's broken repaired._

_Your telescope's not broken! From what I understand, the image turning fuzzy or clear depending on which way you turn the lenses is something normal folk call "focusing!"_

_Rosie! Are you accusing me of making it all up just so I had a reason to go to the blacksmith's?_

_Either that or being too twitterpated, if that is the right word, to notice that your telescope wasn't actually damaged._

Clara fought back a blush, not wanting Rosie to suspect that her latter hypothesis might just actually be correct. _Well, it doesn't matter,_ she declared, putting her nose in the air._ If it's not broken, Emmett will find out, and he'll just return it to me tonight._

Rosie groaned inside her skull. _That man does horrible things to your head._

I _think they're wonderful things._ The symbiote grumbled, skirt shifting a little from the vibrations. Clara sighed and looked down at the "cloth." _I can't help it, Rosie! I know it's sudden, but – whenever he looks at me, it's like – it's like I'm the only woman in the world who matters to him. Like, in his eyes, I'm perfection incarnate. And I feel just the same about him. Nobody else has ever made me feel like that before. _She frowned._ Besides, even you can't deny that he was a perfect gentleman while we were there._

_I'm not saying he's not nice – he is,_ Rosie allowed. _But I can't help but worry, given our circumstances. You came down here to get _away_ from parents obsessed with you finding a husband, not to prove them right by mooning after blacksmiths._ The skirt rippled again. _Besides, I think there's something odd about him._

_Oh, pish-tosh. Is this because he's older than I am? I admit I never pictured my dream man having white hair, but he looks hale and healthy enough. And I don't think they would have let him take on the job of blacksmith if he wasn't capable of doing it._

_No, it's nothing to do with his age. It's – well – there's something odd about that coat of his._

_His coat?_ Clara pursed her lips thoughtfully. _All right, it is a bit puzzling that he was wearing his duster inside the shop, but maybe he'd just gotten in from a ride or something and went straight to the model railroad._

_It's not that. I thought I saw something _moving_ under it._

That brought Clara up short. _What?_

_I couldn't tell what it was, but I'd swear that I saw something twitch while he and you were having that staring contest. Something that had a bit of a tentacley look about it._

Clara stared into space, hardly daring to believe this. After all her worry last night. . .could it be. . . . _Rosie. . .you don't think he might – have another one of you lot?_

_No – I would have sensed _that_ immediately,_ Rosie replied with a sad little shiver. _This was something else altogether._

Clara pretended to smooth her dress so she could offer the symbiote some comfort. _I'm sorry it wasn't one of your kind. But then – what else could it be? Are there any other races like you out there that might manifest differently?_

_I couldn't tell you, Mother. All the time I spent in space, I was in hibernation. Anything's possible, I suppose._

_Hmmm._ Clara fiddled with her fingers._ Did it seem like Emmett's – friend – wanted to hurt us in any way?_ That would be all she needed, Emmett bonded to something that ate people.

_I didn't sense any hostility from it – I couldn't sense much of anything, really. It just felt – weird. Like it didn't belong here._

_Hmmmmmm._ Clara resumed her walk down the road._ Well, we're going to see him at the festival tonight. Perhaps we can figure out a way for you to discreetly take a peek under that coat._

_Maybe._ Rosie rippled under her fingers. _Speaking of which, though, must we go to the festival?_

_I should, even if I wasn't planning on meeting Emmett there,_ Clara thought, sidestepping a horse patty. _The entire town will be turning out – it'll give me a chance to get properly acquainted with everyone. Besides, it might be fun._

_Yes, but – it also might get – loud._

Clara gave Rosie a reassuring smile. _I can't imagine it'll get loud enough to bother you. And if it does, I promise you we'll leave that very instant._

_Unless Emmett is there,_ Rosie said, sarcasm oozing from the words.

_Even if he is,_ Clara replied, mental voice firm. Then she allowed herself a girlish giggle. _Though, speaking of Emmett, we're going to have to come up with a very special dress for tonight. I want him to be impressed._

Rosie sighed. _Yes, because it's so important that we impress this man we've know for all of a day and a half. A little browsing at the dressmaker's then?_

_Yes. _Clara patted her waist. _And stop being so grouchy. This will be fun, you'll see._

_If you say so._

_I do._ Clara rolled her eyes as they made their way to the clothing store. _Honestly, sometimes it's like having a bratty child permanently attached to you. Emmett is so lucky he doesn't have to put up with this._


	10. Let's Have A Party

Chapter 10

Saturday, September 5th, 1885

Hill Valley

7:56 P.M.

Main Street was completely transformed by the time Marty, Doc, and Jennifer stepped out of the blacksmith shop. The road was lined with dozens of Chinese lanterns, flickering bright red against the deep black of the night sky. Long tables laden with mounds of food filled the air with smell of fresh meat, vegetables, and pastries. In what would eventually become the courthouse square, carpenters had set up a makeshift stage and dance floor, on which numerous people were already gathered. Along the perimeter stood a number of wagon booths, with traveling peddlers hawking their wares and offering various entertainments. Marty whistled. "Not bad for the 1800s."

"Reminds me of when they did those 'spirit day' fairs back in middle school," Jennifer nodded. She lifted her nose and sniffed. "Ooh, I think Mrs. Anderson made pie!"

_**Mmmmm!**_ the tentacles hummed.

_**Better get over there now, Father, before the gunfight over the last piece breaks out,**_ Tommy joked.

"I'm sure we'll get our fair share," Doc chuckled. "If she's smart, she's made at least four or five to keep up with the demand!"

As they went to join the crowd, a man caught Doc's arm. He turned to see Sheriff Strickland's top deputy, Warren Church, regarding him with a slightly-apologetic smile. "Excuse me, folks," he said, waving Marty and Jennifer back. "Before you can go on, I need you to check any weapons."

"Weapons?" Jennifer repeated, tilting her head.

"Who brings weapons to a party?" Marty asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Well, you never know who's going to show up," Deputy Church replied. "We don't want any rough sorts causing trouble. Not to say that you and Mr. Wayne are rough sorts, understand," he added, cheeks flushing. "But Sheriff Strickland says we can't make any exceptions. Got to ask everybody."

"Oh, that's fine," Doc assured him, smiling. "And it's not a problem – we're unarmed."

_**Well, for a certain definition of the word,**_ Verne added in his head, making his brothers giggle.

Deputy Church grinned and nodded, releasing Doc's arm. "Didn't think you were, but you know how the Sheriff gets. Much obliged, and have fun! I think the mayor's going to be dedicating the new clock tower in just a minute."

"Oh yeah – the clock arrived on the same train as Miss Clayton, didn't it?" Jennifer said, standing on tiptoe to get a better look.

"Yup! We've been waiting a while for it."

_**Father, we should go!**_ Jules said, as his fellow tentacles fought back squeals of excitement. _**Talk about an auspicious event in our personal history!**_

"Then that's where we're headed," Doc said, to both Deputy Church and the tentacles. "Have a good evening, Deputy."

"Thanks, and you as well." Church headed off in search of more newcomers while Doc, Marty, and Jennifer made a beeline for the crowd now gathering in front of the courthouse. Marty grumbled as they found themselves stuck at the very back. "I can't see a thing! Why'd all the tall people have to come first?"

Jennifer jumped up and down a few times. "Ugh! All I see are hats."

_**Too bad we can't give them a boost,**_ Albert commented.

_Tell me about it,_ Doc agreed. _I'm not having much luck getting a decent view myself._ Scanning the area, he saw that the deck around the Palace Saloon was deserted except for one or two stragglers. "Hey – let's see if we have a better vantage point over there," he said, pointing it out to his friends.

They hurried over, finding a decent position just as the mayor ascended his little stage. Hubert grinned at the crowd, hand held on his chest like the great orators of old. "Ladies and gentlemen – as mayor of Hill Valley, it gives me great pleasure to dedicate this clock to the people of Hill County!" He indicated the familiar clock face behind him, set up with all its gears and springs in place and with the hands reading eight o'clock. "May it stand for all time!"

_**Well, he's right about that bit,**_ Albert said as the people let out a few hurrahs. _**Now, if he'd said "run" for all time. . . .**_

_**Hey, by the time it stops, he's gonna be long dead,**_ Tommy snickered. _**No skin off his nose!**_

_Shhhh,_ Doc thought, resisting the urge to laugh.

Hubert held up his hand for silence, then grasped the lever that would start the gears moving. "Tell me when, gentlemen," he said, looking at his fellow councilmen.

The one nearest consulted his watch, then started the countdown. "10 – 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 – 5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1 – now!"

A quick tug, and the clock began to tick. The gathered townspeople cheered and applauded as fireworks whizzed off the courthouse frame in celebration. Hubert doffed his hat and spread his arms wide. "Let the festivities begin!"

"Wow," Jennifer said, giving Marty a hug. "This must be a real mindblower for you and Doc."

"Tell me about it," Marty agreed. "There when it started, there when it stopped."

"Indeed. We've been witness to both the beginning and end of this timepiece now," Doc nodded. "Or, rather, end and beginning."

"Yeah. Too bad we don't have a camera," Marty said, half-joking.

A sudden flash caught their attention. Right before them, the cameraman for the "Telegraph" had set up his tripod and was taking pictures of the clock and the party. The three looked at each other for a moment. Then, in near-perfect unison, they smiled.

A couple of minutes and a quick chat with the photographer later, they were standing beside the clock – Doc on the left, Marty and Jennifer on the right. "The only trouble is, we'll never be able to show it to anybody," Doc said as the man prepared his camera.

Marty shrugged and slipped his arm around Jennifer. "Smile, Doc."

Doc did as bid as the photographer readied his flash. The world went bright white for a moment as the camera went off. Doc's spine stiffened on automatic, his breathing quickening. Just for a moment, he was back in the Libyans' makeshift lab, brilliant white light burning through his eyeballs, rendering the world a confused and blurry mess. . . .

Four stiff metal arms pressing up against his back brought him back to the present. _**It's okay, Father,**_ Jules said as the others made soothing noises. _**Just a camera. Nothing's going to happen to you.**_

_I know,_ Doc thought back, relaxing as his eyes readjusted to the dark. _Great Scott, am I glad that I was able to get my eyes fixed without a hitch during our little sojourn in the future! I can only imagine the trouble we'd be in if I couldn't see properly on top of all this._

_**Let's not think about it,**_ Verne declared. _**We've got enough on our minds already.**_

After paying the photographer and getting his promise that he'd deliver the finished picture tomorrow evening (and that no, he would not keep a copy for the paper), the group made their way to the food tables. As predicted, Mrs. Anderson's pies were going fast – a couple of tins were already empty by the time they got to the front of the line. Jennifer went in search of plates while Doc and Marty kept guard over the remaining slices. "Man, it makes you wonder what she puts in this stuff," Marty muttered, frowning at someone trying to edge around them.

"Whatever it is, it makes me sad I don't have a counterpart to her working in my own kitchen," Doc mumbled. He craned his neck as he spotted some familiar faces coming toward them. "Oh – hello Mr. and Mrs. McFly!"

Seamus gave them a little wave as he and his wife Maggie wound their way around the crush of people. "Good to see you, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Eastwood," he said, touching his hat. "I hope you're enjoying the festivities."

"We're having a good time so far," Marty replied. He peered at the infant swaddled in Maggie's arms. "Oh, hey, is that William?"

Maggie beamed proudly. "Aye! The first McFly born in America." She held up William so the infant could get a good look at the pair. "Will, this here is Mr. Eastwood and Mr. Wayne."

William stared at them with wide blue eyes. Then he blew a raspberry. "Well, will you look at that," Seamus said with a laugh. "I think he likes you two. He doesn't usually take to strangers."

"Baby's got good taste," Marty smirked. He reached out and rubbed the baby's head through his bonnet. "Hey Will. Welcome to Hill Valley."

Jennifer returned, holding a stack of plates close to her chest. "Hi Mr. and Mrs. McFly," she said. "Here to get your share of the pie?"

"No, just enjoying the party for now," Seamus said. "Please don't let us stop you, though. We know all too well how fast Mrs. Anderson's pies vanish!"

"Yeah, us too," Marty said, taking a plate from Jennifer and claiming the last piece of strawberry. "The woman–"

He stopped suddenly, eyes fixed on the tin. Then he burst out laughing. "Oh, hey, Jen! Look at this!"

Jennifer did so, and started giggling herself. "Frisbie! Who would have guessed?"

Seamus and Maggie stared at the teens, then shot Doc a baffled glance. Doc shrugged, doing his best to act like he had no clue either. _Marty, Jennifer, you know better than that!_ he mentally scolded his friends.

_**Well, it **_**is**_** a funny coincidence,**_ Tommy said in his head.

_Admittedly – I just wish they hadn't chosen to express their amusement so loudly!_

Marty and Jennifer seemed to realize their faux pas and devoted themselves to eating their pie. With a shrug, Seamus and Maggie moved on, Doc seeing them off with a tip of his hat. "They probably think you're strange now," he informed his friends once the family was out of earshot.

"Well, I bet Seamus already thought we were weird after the 'snake' incident," Marty responded as he pulled his fork out of his mouth. "And I couldn't help it, Doc. Last place I ever expected to see that name."

"We're leaving Monday," Jennifer added, licking raspberry filling off her lips. "Let 'em think we're strange."

"Fine, it's not that big a deal," Doc allowed. "Just try to laugh quieter at your little in-jokes with the future next time, all right?"

After finishing off their pie, the group made their way over to the stage. The band was playing a lively tune, stomping their feet to the rhythm of their drums and guitars. Doc glanced curiously over at his 80s-rock-loving friend. "What do you think of the music?"

"I like it!" Marty said with a grin. Seeing the older man's surprised look, he added, "Well, it's got a beat and you can dance to it."

Jennifer leaned up against her boyfriend, a sly smile on her face. "Yeah. Speaking of dancing. . . ."

"Step right up, gentlemen, and test your luck!"

The trio turned to see one of the wagon peddlers nearby, standing before a crudely-automated shooting gallery. The salesman was holding a gun up, waving it to and fro before a gathering group of customers. "It is my privilege to present to you the finest gun yet made by the Colt company – our very own Peacemaker!"

_**There's a joke to be made there,**_ Albert remarked.

_**Oh-oh,**_ Tommy said suddenly, his claw just peeping out from beneath Doc's coat hem. _**Miss Clayton at two o'clock!**_

Doc spun back around. Sure enough, Clara was making her way through the crowd at the opposite side of the stage, greeting people as they passed. Doc crossed the dance floor to get a better look at her. She'd changed her pink-striped dress for a white one speckled with tiny flowers, accented near the scooped collar with a sprig of purple blooms. She'd also gone hatless, letting Doc get a better look at those luscious brown curls. A few carefully-arranged tendrils trailed out of her bun down her shoulder. What would it be like to tangle his fingers in them, he wondered. . .and to touch that collarbone so delightfully exposed. . . .

_**And there you go, getting soppy again,**_ Albert complained. _**Edging on perverted.**_

_**Easy on, Father,**_ Jules warned. _**Remember your promise to Marty and Jennifer. You have to explain to her tonight that we're not staying in town much longer.**_

_I know,_ Doc thought, a pang going through him. _I'm not looking forward to it._

The tentacles pressed up close against his back again. _**We're sorry, Father,**_ Tommy said. _**We wish there was another way. She really is nice.**_

_**If only she didn't live in the past,**_ Verne agreed. _**And, uh – you know.**_

Doc bit his lip, doing his best to stop a wince. _I do know. It's all right, boys. I understand my duties to the space-time continuum. Besides, I've handled heartbreak before. Though never as the one inflicting it. . .maybe it'll be easier that way, though. _He frowned to himself. _I hope._

Clara reached the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd as if searching for someone. Finally, she glanced up and saw him, waiting for her by the steps. Her face broke out in a brilliant smile. Doc smiled back, his painful unease fading away under that glow. _Even if I do have to end things soon, there's no reason why I can't allow myself to enjoy the majority of the evening, _he decided, descending the steps toward her. _Might as well make some pleasant memories while I can._ He doffed his hat and bowed. "Good evening."

"Good evening," Clara replied, nodding in return.

It occurred to Doc that he ought to compliment her. She was truly a vision in white tonight. . .and it might make things easier when the party ended and he had to explain things. Surely she'd take it better if she knew he genuinely enjoyed her company. But what exactly should he say? "You – you look very – nice," he blurted.

_**Oh, smoooth,**_ Albert said, snickering.

_Look, I'm a scientist, not a poet._

Clara, however, seemed quite pleased with his clumsy attempts at flattery. "Thank you," she replied, beaming. Doc felt a wave of happiness and relief. How could anyone be so wonderful? He really did have to make this the best night of her life!

Unfortunately, he didn't have any idea what to do next. They stood in awkward silence for a minute, Clara fiddling with her hands as Doc thought frantically. _Damn it, why must I be so out of practice at this?!_

_**Father, calm down,**_ Verne said. _**It can't be that bad. When was the last time you were out on a date?**_

_Can't you just access my memory and find out for yourself?_

_**We like asking you. Feels less intrusive.**_

_Fine._ Doc took a deep breath. _1957._

There was an even more awkward silence inside of his head. _**I'll shut up now.**_

_**Maybe you should consider what Marty might do in this situation?**_ Jules suggested. _**He and Jennifer are your best role models when it comes to romantic interactions.**_

Doc pondered that for a moment. He wasn't sure what Marty would do – but Jennifer had clearly been about to ask her boyfriend to dance, and it was unlikely that Marty would have refused. Add into that they were already at the edges of the dance floor, and it seemed to be the favorite activity of most of the couples here. . . . Plucking up his courage, Doc faced the schoolteacher and held a hand out toward the stage. "Would like to–"

The instant Clara turned those bright brown eyes on him, though, all thoughts – including how to end the sentence – fled Doc's mind. "Uh – would you care to – to–" he tried again, desperately waving at the floor when the word just wouldn't come.

_**I believe you are looking for the verb "dance,"**_ Jules said, his intensely formal tone just hiding a laugh. _**Defined as an activity in which a person moves his or her body rhythmically in time to the beat of a song. Most often done in pairs, although some styles allow for groups of three or more –**_

_You've made your point! Great Scott, are you lot going to mock me all night?_

_**Sorry, Father, but you're making it awfully easy, **_Albert said with a snigger. Doc somehow stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

Clara, meanwhile, had managed to interpret his half-sentences and gestures. "I'd love to," she said, pulling him back into the outside world.

Relieved that she didn't think him a complete idiot, Doc smiled and offered her his arm. She took it, and together they climbed onto the stage, locating an empty spot to start in. As befitted the protocol of the times, Doc bowed and Clara curtsied. Then, with a touch of nervous hesitation, they reached for each other. Doc held his breath as Clara's hand ghosted over his back. She was too high to feel anything of the tentacles, but there was always the chance she'd find the brace. . . .

Fortunately, if she did touch it, she made no comment, instead simply settling her hand on his shoulder. Doc pressed his own against her waist as his other hand clasped hers. The feel of her skin was just as distracting as her smile. How was he supposed to remember how to dance when all he could think about was how perfectly her fingers seemed to fit between his?

Then, suddenly, he found old memories of a turn with a dance instructor his mother had hired once and the few turns he'd done with Lucy as a teenager popping into his head. Confusion reigned briefly before he realized what must have triggered them. _Thanks,_ he sent the tentacles gratefully.

_**Well, if we're going to mock you all night, we might as well soften the blow,**_ Verne replied.

Doc gave a slight nod, then took a moment to observe the other couples whirling around them. It didn't look difficult at all, really – just a more enthusiastic variation on the box step. Taking a deep breath, he threw himself wholeheartedly into imitating the steps of those closest. Clara did the same, and it wasn't long at all before they fell into the right rhythm, parading around the stage like pros. The pair beamed at each other, and Doc felt his heart swell up with pride and love. _All right. No matter how this night ends – this, right here, right now, is the best moment of my life._

* * *

"Man, he's really pushing this thing, huh? They must not be selling well."

"Either that or he's just really, really into guns," Marty said as he and Jennifer watched the salesman finish up his pitch. "More than these other guys, anyway."

This seemed true enough – while the peddler had attracted a decent number of people, none of them seemed particularly convinced by his insistence that the Colt Peacemaker was the best gun in all the West. The man was undeterred by the crowd's apathy, however. "Of course, words are just that – words," the man said looking around. "The real proof is in the feel! Who'd like to give this little beauty a try?" His eyes scanned the gathered men, then suddenly locked onto Marty. "How about you, young man? Want to give her a go?"

Marty jerked backward, startled, then bit his lip. "I dunno," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He liked shooting games just as much as the next kid – he'd wasted countless hours on "Duck Hunt," and he was a whiz on the local 7-11's "Wild Gunman" arcade. But so far he'd managed to avoid touching a real gun. While it was a temptation, he didn't want to hurt anyone should things go wrong. "Hey, Doc–"

He blinked as he realized the space next to him was empty. _What the hell? Where did he go?_ he thought, looking around in bafflement.

Jennifer nudged his side and pointed. Marty followed her finger to see Doc with Clara on the dance floor, of all places. Doing pretty well for himself, no less. Marty watched as they spun by him and Jennifer, amazed. "The Doc can _dance_?"

"And he's not bad at it," Jennifer said, sounding pretty stunned herself.

A tug on his sleeve brought Marty out of his stupor. He looked down to see the gun salesman on the steps just below him, grinning like a lunatic. Marty was starting to wonder if the guy ever _stopped_ smiling. "Son, I just told everyone that even a baby could handle this! Now, you're not afraid to try something a baby could use, are you?"

Marty's eyes narrowed, feeling a flash of the old 'are you calling me chicken?' anger. No matter how stupid it was, it had never quite gone away. He glanced up at the shooting gallery. It didn't look too complicated – three tin cowboy figures popping up at regular intervals in front of a western town backdrop, each with a little metal heart as a target. Along the top ran a line of crudely-painted ducks for additional practice – Marty caught himself wondering if there was an annoying dog figure somewhere at the bottom that would pop up and snigger if he missed any of them. Not any different from the NES, really. What was the harm of giving it a shot? "Course I'm not," he said, letting the salesman pull him down.

"Marty, be careful," Jennifer called, leaning over the railing.

"I don't intend to hit anybody, Jen!"

"And you won't," the salesman agreed, clapping Marty on the back. "Easiest gun in the world to use! Safest, too!"

So saying, he handed Marty the gun – or, rather, he shoved it into Marty's left hand. Marty tried to switch it to his right, but the salesman was already curling the teen's fingers around the grip. "Now, you just hold it like that, and ease that hammer back. . .no, no, real smooth like–" the man counseled as Marty attempted to follow directions and aim.

BANG! Marty nearly jumped out of his skin as the gun went off. The salesman burst into laughter, prompting a few snickers from the other men. Marty glared at the lot. "Listen, can I try that again?" he asked, now determined to make a good show of this.

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," the salesman chuckled.

Marty tossed the gun into his right hand, his fingers curling around the suddenly-familiar shape. He took a deep breath and prepared himself, learning the pattern of the figures as they rose and fell. _Okay, McFly, just like in Wild Gunman. . . ._

He fired. The recoil felt strange to someone used to the NES Light Gun, but it did nothing to trip him up as he began taking out cowboy after cowboy, making their little hearts spin wildly. Within a minute, he'd successfully hit every target offered. The salesman gave him a dumbfounded stare, while Jennifer started a quick round of applause. Marty grinned, spun the gun around in his hand, and handed it back to the peddler grip-first. Before he could leave, though, the guy grabbed his arm. "Just tell me one thing," he said, shaking his head. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

Marty couldn't resist. "7-11," he replied nonchalantly, before pulling away and darting to safety on the stage.

Jennifer hid a grin as he rejoined her. "Oh, you're lucky Doc didn't hear that one," she giggled.

"Yeah, well, that jackass deserves to be confused," Marty said, glancing back as the salesman frowned to himself, then got his bearings and started going on about how they surely couldn't keep their hands off this fine firearm now that they'd seen it in action. "Besides, he seems to have shaken it off pretty quick."

"Maybe – but you know, I _could_ rat you out," Jennifer said, batting her eyelashes.

"Oh?" Marty smirked. "And what do I have to do to make you keep your mouth shut?"

In response, Jennifer pulled him out onto the dance floor. "Yeah, figures – though, uh, I've never square-danced before," Marty confessed, stepping out of the way of a spinning couple.

"Me either," Jennifer said. "But it can't be that hard. I mean, look at Doc."

Marty did so, scanning the crowd until he spotted his friend still whirling Clara about. He took a moment to marvel at the sight once more. He knew Doc loved good music – one of the pleasures of going to work at his place in the early days of their friendship was listening to the scientist's record collection – but he'd had never struck Marty as the dancing type. _Then again, I never saw him as the 'girlfriend' type either,_ Marty admitted to himself. _Yet here he is, probably having a better time at this party than I am at the moment. This trip has been full of weirdness._

Well, he couldn't let his best friend have all the fun. He watched Doc's feet, studying the steps. It didn't look too hard. . .he turned back to Jennifer and shrugged. She shrugged back. "I think we'll look sillier just standing out here than if we give it a go," she said.

"Right," Marty nodded. He took Jennifer's hand in his and put his other arm around her waist. Jennifer slipped her free arm around his shoulders, and they began to dance.

They were quite awkward at first, stepping on each other's toes and tangling up their legs. After a couple of minutes of practice, though, they managed to settle into the rhythm of the music. Marty grinned as they paraded around the floor. "Hey, this is pretty fun!"

Doc and Clara came up beside them. "Glad to see you could join us!" Doc said, grinning to beat the band.

"Thanks!" Marty replied. "You know, I think you're doing better than I am!"

"Sheer luck, I assure you," Doc said with a laugh.

The song ended, sparking a round of applause from the dancers. A man climbed onto the stage and waved his hands for silence. "All right, folks, form two lines! Women on this side, men on the other!"

Doc looked at Clara as the other dancers hurried to line up. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Clara said with a smile.

Jennifer grinned at Marty. "Up for it?"

"Why not?" The two couples took their places at the end of the line. The band took a count of four and started up a new tune, the man started calling out steps, and they were off.

To Marty's relief, the line dance was a fairly simple one, though it did involve a lot of turning and partner-switching. He and his friends kept up the best they could – though the weirdest moment for Marty was having to take a turn with Clara. "You're tall," he commented as they spun around, unable to help a tiny spike of envy deep inside.

Clara chuckled. "I take after my father. He's a very tall man – a few inches taller than Emmett, in fact."

"Ah. I take after my dad's family too, but I get my height from Mom," Marty said, waving his hand over his head. "Only thing I really wanted from Dad, and he wouldn't give it to me."

Clara patted his shoulder. "No shame in being short. And you're quite the dancer. Jennifer's lucky to have you as her partner."

Marty smiled, a weird mix of happiness and awkwardness settling in his stomach. "Thanks." _Damn it, why do you have to be so nice? Telling Doc he can't do the romance thing would be a lot easier if you were a jerk. Damn space-time continuum making you live 70 years before the rest of us. . . ._

He wasn't given much time to ponder this, fortunately, needing most of his brainpower to keep up with the other couples. By the time of "bow to your partner – you're through!" the teen was exhausted. "Whew!" he said as they favored the band with another round of applause. "They really give you a workout here!"

"Tell me about it," Jennifer agreed, rather breathless. "Wanna take a break?"

"Sure," Marty nodded, then tipped his hat at Doc and Clara. "We're heading off for a bit. See you guys later?"

"We'll be here," Doc said, pulling Clara close as the band launched into Darling Clementine.

"All right then." Marty took Jennifer's hand and led her off the stage. "I think I'm in the mood for some punch, then maybe some more pie. You?"

"Punch is a definite must," Jennifer nodded, fanning herself with her hand. She kissed Marty on the cheek. "But you know what? Even with all the exhaustion, and wondering what's gonna happen between Doc and Clara, I'm glad we came. I'm having a good time."

Marty kissed her back. "Me too. Hopefully the rest of the night will go just as well." _Up until Doc's gotta break the bad news to Clara. . .but nothing else horrible can happen, right?_


	11. Party Crashers

Chapter 11

Saturday, September 5th, 1885

Hill Valley

8:42 P.M.

_I wish this moment would never end._

Doc smiled dreamily at Clara as they revolved around the dance floor to the strains of "Darling Clementine." The song had never been a favorite of his – in fact, he found it rather inspid. Having Clara in his arms, however, made it better. Clara made everything better. _She's absolutely perfect,_ he thought with a mental sigh.

_**Are you gonna kiss her?**_ Tommy asked, his first speech in about a half-hour. All the tentacles had been unusually quiet in, fact – Doc suspected that, out of respect for his feelings, they were trying to give him the illusion of privacy. He appreciated it. Especially since he knew they were going to be at him to end this budding relationship soon. At least Tommy seemed to be marginally on his side. _Maybe,_ he thought back.

_**Maybe? Come on, Father, she likes you, you like her. . .you might as well get **_**one**_** kiss before it all goes bottoms up. **_

Doc supposed Tommy had a point. And he did very much want to kiss Clara. The taste of her lips would be sweeter than the most intoxicating wine, he was sure (although he hoped they wouldn't send him crashing to the ground unconscious!). But the logical part of his mind kept interjecting that, even with how strong his feelings were for Clara already, that probably was taking things a little fast. And there was the reactions of the rest of the community to consider as well. Marty and Jennifer had gotten their share of disapproving looks whenever they indulged in a brief public display of affection, and they were posing as an engaged couple. The local blacksmith kissing the new schoolteacher (a position that called for the utmost chastity) smack dab in the middle of town would probably cause an uproar to rival the one that had surrounded the press's discovery of his tentacles.

Then again. . .they _were_ at a party. Parties were the perfect occasion for loosening the rules, weren't they? His eyes flicked left and right. Nobody was paying them all that much attention. Surely – surely _one_ small indiscretion would be worth –

Someone grabbed his shoulder roughly, forcing him to stop. Before he could protest or even turn his head, he heard something bounce off the metal covering his spine through his clothes. He stiffened as the tentacles went into high alert mode. _What the– _

"I told you to watch your back, smithy," an all-too-familiar voice whispered in his ear.

_Shit! _Doc thought, going pale. In all the excitement of coming up with his grand plan, getting the DeLorean ready for its train-powered trip, and meeting Clara, Doc had completely forgotten about Buford and his promise to put a bullet in his back. "Tannen," he greeted the man, for lack of anything better to say or do. "What are you doing here?"

"Enjoying the party," Buford said, breath reeking of booze. He jammed the – gun? Doc assumed that's what it was, his condition made it hard to actually feel it – deeper into the scientist's back. "It's a derringer, smithy. Small but effective. Last time I used it, fellow took three whole days to die," the outlaw continued with relish. "That means you'd be dead by about suppertime Monday."

_**Jules, quick – would his bullet actually penetrate the metal embedded in Father's flesh?**_ Verne asked, echoing the thought currently foremost on Doc's mind.

_**78% probability it wouldn't, **_Jules said after a moment to perform the calculations._** The problem is, his survival would raise some hard-to answer questions from the locals – unless you think you could distract them by claiming you were wearing some sort of body armor. Did people do that in this time period?**_

_They might have, but I can't think of–_

Clara suddenly moved closer, bracing herself on his shoulders to scowl at Buford. "Excuse me, I don't know who you think you are, but we're dancing," she snapped.

The pressure from Buford's hand relaxed as the outlaw switched his attention from Doc to Clara. "Well, looky what we have here," he said, his leer clear in his voice. He jabbed Doc in the back once more. "Well, ain't you gonna introduce me to the lady? I'd like a dance!"

Oh no. Doc was _not_ letting this ruffian anywhere _near_ Clara! He'd heard enough about Biff's unwelcome attentions on Lorraine in both the 50s and the previous version of the 80s from Marty – it was a scientific fact that Buford would be a hundred times worse. He spun around and hit Tannen with his best glare. "I wouldn't give you the pleasure! You'll just have to go ahead and shoot!"

"All right," Buford agreed readily, sticking his gun – which was so small the barrel was barely visible past his thick fingers – under Doc's chin.

_**Uh, Father, the bullet has a 100% probability of severely injuring if not killing you if he fires it through your **_**head**_**,**_ Jules said, his normally clinical voice shaking as his brothers suppressed squeaks of fright.

Clara seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "No! No, Emmett, I'll dance with him!" she cried, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him away from Buford.

Doc was set to protest – even if he couldn't think of a way to avoid getting shot for doing so – but Buford's tongue was faster. "Woo! Boys, you keep the blacksmith company while I get acquainted with the filly!" he said, shoving Doc to the side.

_Boys?_ Doc thought, just before strong arms encircled his middle and held him nearly immobile. Looking around, he saw that he was in the grips of Buford's gang. Ah yes – Buford wouldn't go anywhere without his little entourage, would he? The blond-haired one smirked at him. "Evenin', blacksmith. Enjoying the party?"

Doc glared at him, then squirmed and yanked against the men's grip. The men's hands held fast, though, and he was forced to watch helplessly as Buford dragged Clara across the dance floor like she was some sort of rag doll. The other dancers scrambled out of the way of the outlaw lest they be trampled. Buford just laughed and continued yanking Clara around. "Let me go!" Doc snarled, trying again to escape as rage bubbled up inside him.

_**Oooh, if only we could pop out – we'd kick their asses,**_ Albert growled, his brothers hissing in agreement. _**Father, think we could risk maybe giving them just a little nudge? Just enough to startle them and make them loosen their grips?**_

Doc caught himself seriously considering the proposition. It was so goddamn tempting. . .but he held himself in check. Even a tiny nudge stood too much chance of being noticed – especially with more and more dancers bolting for the sides of the stage as Buford shoved his way through them. If the tentacles were spotted, it would be sure to cause chaos. And he didn't want anyone, particularly Clara, getting hurt as a result. _Argh!_ he thought, gritting his teeth so hard it hurt. _Sometimes I _hate_ this time period!_

Buford, for his part, looked to be having the time of his life. He snickered as he leaned in to sniff Clara's hair. Doc half-expected him to just start licking her like the 'mad dog' of his nickname. "Woo! You know, blacksmith, maybe I'll just take my 80 dollars' worth out of her!" he suddenly called to Doc.

Doc hadn't thought he could get any angrier. The rage coursing through his veins now felt like the last moments before a nuclear explosion. "Damn it, leave her alone!" he yelled, throwing himself forward and almost managing to pull free of his captors. They quickly redoubled their efforts to keep him still.

Buford just laughed again and went back to leering at Clara. "Yeah, I bet there's something you could do that's worth 80 dollars," he said, not even bothering to lower his voice. The local women exchanged horrified looks as the scientist growled deep in his throat.

To Doc's shock, Clara responded to this proposition by _smiling_. "I believe you've underestimated me, mister."

Buford's eyes lit up. "Oh, have I now?"

Clara nodded – then lifted her foot high and kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. Buford yelped in pain, releasing her and stumbling backward a step. Doc grinned as the tentacles let out a mental cheer. _That's my girl!_

The moment didn't last, however. The instant Buford got his feet again, he lunged at Clara and threw her to the ground. There were gasps all around as the persistent last of the dancers froze in shock at this act of violence. Even the band stopped playing.

Doc barely noticed any of this. Seeing Clara hit the ground had upgraded his rage to full-on supernova. He surged forward, dragging the rather startled gang members with him. "Stop it!" he roared. He could hear the tentacles hissing audibly, but he was beyond caring. "Damn you, Tannen!"

Buford glared at him. "No," he said, raising his gun so it was pointed straight at Doc's face. His cronies scattered as the tentacles' hissing became frightened squeaks. "I damn you. I damn you – to _hell_!"

_**Father! Father, do something!**_ Tommy cried.

Doc, however, had no idea what to do besides duck, and he didn't want to do that for fear of getting someone killed and changing history. And it was rather hard to come up with new, better plans with a gun in your face and four terrified voices panicking in your head. _Great Scott,_ he thought as Buford cocked the hammer and curled his finger, _don't let it end like this!_

* * *

_Shit! Not like this, not like this!_

Marty gaped at the scene as Jennifer pressed her hands against her face. His heart felt like it was trying to burst out of his ribcage and go racing down the street. Seeing that gun pointed at Doc's head. . .it was the Libyans all over again. He could already hear the high-pitched _scream_ as the bullet tore through his best friend, and see the body motionless on the floor, one foot twisted at an all-too-familiar awkward angle. . . . _No, I can't go through that again, I can't,_ he thought, sweat pouring down his body._ I gotta help him – but how?_

For some reason, his mind went back to earlier in the evening, and the name he'd spotted on the pie tins. A wild idea entered his head. Without pausing to think too hard about it, Marty snatched up one of the empties from the buffet table, took aim, and threw it as hard as he could.

The tin sailed through the air just like it was a real Frisbee, only with a lot more weight to it. It slammed into Buford's hand just as the outlaw fired, causing the shot to go wild. The bullet hit Doc's hat instead, sending it flying into the air but leaving the scientist unharmed. Marty breathed a sigh of relief. _Oh thank God._

A confused and slightly-in-pain Buford jerked his head around to see the teenager standing in the same direction the tin had come from. Even his dim brain could infer the reason for his missed shot. His eyes glittered with anger. "You!"

Marty glared back, advancing a step and jabbing a finger at the gunman. "Lighten up, jerk!"

Buford blinked, frowned, then glanced back at his gang. They shrugged at him, not understanding the phrase any better than he did. Buford decided it wasn't worth thinking about and got back to glowering at Marty. "Mighty strong words, runt! Are you man enough to back them up with more than just a pie plate?"

Marty saw Jennifer pale out of the corner of his eye. Honestly, he wasn't feeling all that much better. He knew what Buford meant, and, much as he hated the guy, he didn't really want to get into a gunfight with him. He craned his head to get a look at Doc. His friend was crouching down by Clara, helping her off the floor and making sure she was all right. Neither of them seemed to be hurt – just shook up. Probably best to end this right now. He shook his head. "Look, just leave my friends alone," he said, then turned to walk away.

"Hey, where are you going?" Buford demanded, clearly unused to someone refusing him. "Get back here! Are you _yellow_?"

Marty stopped, his fists clenching on automatic as the anger flared up again. Had he heard that right? Had Buford just called him _yellow_? How the hell could that asshole call him a coward after he'd disarmed him with one throw?!

Buford snickered behind him. "Just what I thought," he said, letting the words drag out. "A yellow-belly."

Marty closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No. He couldn't let the guy get to him. He had to remember what he'd promised Doc and Jennifer. Had to remember what had happened the last time he'd lost his temper with a Tannen who'd called him a chicken. _Come on, McFly. In just two days, with any luck, you're gonna be out of here for good. Do you really want to get yourself killed right before you go home? Just keep walking._

Buford, however, had no intentions of letting up the assault. "I knew you was a coward!" he yelled as Marty attempted again to leave. "You and your cheatin' blacksmith uncle! You're both gutless yellow turds!"

All right, that was it. Buford could insult him all he wanted, but Marty drew the line at that asshole taking pot shots at his best friend! Especially after what he'd just pulled! "Doc's braver than you'll ever be, you jackass!" he snapped, whirling around with gritted teeth.

Buford's eyes narrowed. "You just call me a donkey, runt?"

"Yeah, I did. Better than a _mad dog_, right?"

Buford turned crimson. "All right, Eastwood!" he roared, pointing at the teen's chest. "Let's settle this once and for all, right now!"

One of Buford's gang reached forward and tugged his sleeve. "Uh, not now, Buford," he said, almost apologetically. "Marshall's got our guns."

"Like I said, we'll finish this tomorrow," Buford amended.

"Tomorrow we're robbing the Pine City stage," another member said, eyes darting this way and that.

Buford grumbled and turned to face them. "What about Monday? We doing anything Monday?" he demanded. Marty found himself fighting back a laugh despite everything. _Who knew outlaws needed day planners?_

The gang conferred for a moment. "Nope, Monday's fine," the first man said with a nod. "You can kill him on Monday."

Buford nodded back before directing a hard stare at Marty. "I'll be back this way on Monday. We'll settle this then." He pointed toward the local watering hole. "Right in front of the Palace Saloon."

Yet again, those cliches from the Westerns he'd watched as a kid turned out to have a place in reality. He'd never get over just how weird that was. "Yeah, right," Marty said, shaking his head. "When? High noon?"

"Noon?" Buford snorted. "I do my killing before breakfast. Seven o'clock!"

Damn. Now what? Angry as he was, Marty still didn't relish the idea of facing Buford one-on-one. All he wanted was to get home in one piece. But it was clear to him Buford wasn't about to let this go, for any reason. How did he get out of this?

Then an idea hit him. He grinned at Buford, doing his best to play the brave white-hatted hero. "Eight o'clock," he replied, ignoring Doc and Jennifer staring at him like he'd lost his mind. "I do my killing after breakfast."

Whatever protest Buford might have made to the time change was cut off by the sound of a shotgun being pumped. Both he and Marty looked up to see Marshall Strickland ascend the stage. "What's going on?" he demanded, eyes hard. "You causing trouble, Tannen?"

Buford frowned sullenly at the lawman. "No trouble, Marshall," he replied. "Just a personal matter between me and Eastwood. This don't concern the law."

"Tonight, _everything_ concerns the law," Strickland shot back. "Now break it up! Any brawling, that's fifteen days in the county jail."

Buford and his gang looked at each other, then reluctantly stepped back, conceding defeat. For an instant, Marty considered running at the other man and taking a swing at him, just to see if Strickland was serious. Then he decided the chance of landing Buford in jail was not worth the risk of ending up in the cell right next to him. He'd have to be content with the idea he'd already had. He nodded at the lawmaker, holding up his hands. "We're done."

"Good." His authority over the town reestablished, Strickland finally cracked a smile and lowered the gun. "Hey, this is a party!" he called to the rest of the crowd, waving a hand. "Let's have some fun!"

Even though he'd had some time to get used to the man, Marty couldn't help staring. _Holy shit – did that really just come out of a _Strickland's _mouth?!_ he thought as the band started back up. _Sheesh, I seriously would have thought you were the stiffest of them all! Can we bring you back to the future with us and put my Strickland here?_

His idle daydream of how the two Stricklands would react to each other's time periods was interrupted by Buford's face appearing in front of him. "Monday morning, eight o'clock," he said, leaning as close as he could to the teen. Marty wrinkled his nose as Buford's breath proved the older man had never brushed his teeth a day in his life. "And if you ain't there, I'll hunt you and shoot you down like a duck."

Marty frowned, puzzled. There was something wrong with that sentence. . . . The gang member from before grabbed Buford's sleeve again. "It's 'dog,' Buford. Shoot him down like a dog."

Apparently, being corrected on his similes was the last straw for Buford Tannen. "Let's go, boys!" he yelled, storming away from Marty. His three cronies hurried after him. "Let these sissies have their party!"

As soon as the gang had gone, they were replaced by a worried-looking Doc and Jennifer. "Marty, what do you think you're doing, saying that you're going to meet Tannen on Monday?" Doc demanded.

"Didn't you see us trying to wave you off?" Jennifer added. "You could get yourself killed!"

"No, I'm not!" Marty reassured them. "Monday morning, eight o'clock – we're going to be _gone_, remember?"

"Theoretically, yes," Doc said. "But what if the train's late?"

Marty hadn't thought of that. Hill Valley's railroad was very good at keeping to its schedule, but Marty guessed that was actually an anomaly for this time. Who knew what could happen in a world where steam power was still relatively new and bandits roamed free? "Still, it's not like we're going to be _here_," he countered. "We're camping out by the tracks, right?"

"True, but what if Buford–"

Doc suddenly looked to the side and straightened up. "We'll discuss this later," he whispered.

Marty blinked. "What? Hang on, Doc, you brought this–"

However, the reason for Doc's sudden reticence became clear just a moment later as Clara joined them. She gave Marty a grateful smile. "Thank you so much for your gallantry, Mr. Eastwood," she said. "Had you not interfered, Emmett might have been shot." The look on her face as she glanced at her beau suggested this was the absolute worst thing she could imagine happening.

Marty tipped his hat, nodding. Oh yeah, he could sympathize with that feeling. "I wasn't about to let that happen, ma'am. He's been one of my best friends for years now, on top of being family."

Clara nodded back, then turned to Jennifer with a grin. "You've got a very good man there, Miss Streisand."

Jennifer smiled back, wrapping her arm around Marty's waist. "Believe me, Miss Clayton, I know."

"Marty, Jennifer, I'm going to take Clara home," Doc said, looping his arm through Clara's. "I think we've all had enough excitement for the day." The other three nodded. "I'll see you later tonight." He gave Clara his warmest smile. "Shall we, Miss Clayton?"

"We shall, Mr. Wayne," Clara replied with a soft giggle. "Good evening, you two."

"Right," Marty said. "Evening Doc, Miss Clayton." He watched the pair walk away, arm in arm. "Aaand he's not telling her we're leaving at all, is he?"

"I doubt the kids will let him forget," Jennifer told him. "But it really is–"

"Mr. Eastwood!"

Before either teen could react, they were suddenly surrounded by men, all smiling and trying to shake Marty's hand. "Good for you, Mr. Eastwood!" one proclaimed. "I'm glad somebody finally showed the gumption to stand up to that son of a bitch!"

"You sure showed him good, Mr. Eastwood!"

"You're all right in my book, Mr. Eastwood. I'd like to buy you a drink."

"I don't want a drink," Marty said, holding up his hands to preclude any attempts to wrestle some of Chester's paint thinner down his throat. "Listen, guys, me and my fiancee just want–"

A firm hand on his shoulder interrupted him. Turning, Marty saw the Colt salesman, his face practically split in half by his smile. "Son, I'd like to present you with this Colt Peacemaker and gun belt – free of charge!" he declared, holding up a long brown piece of leather complete with spare bullets and revolver.

Marty gaped, shocked. Well, the guy had certainly gotten over the "7-11" crack. "Free?" he repeated, taking the belt and looking it over. "Um–"

The salesman nodded, eyes bright. "I want everyone to know that the gun that shot Buford Tannen was a Colt Peacemaker!" he announced, gesturing grandly toward the sky.

Marty didn't have the heart to tell the guy that he wasn't going to be using any gun, Colt or no, against Buford Tannen. "Thanks," he said instead, holding it up against his waist. A smile worked its way across his face as he looked down at it. Even if he had no intentions of using it, just holding it there made him feel like a real cowboy.

The salesman nodded, clapped the teenager on the back, then leaned down close to Marty's ear. "Of course," he whispered, "you know that, if you lose, I'm taking it back."

And just like that he was gone, back to his stall. Marty stared after him, trying to ignore the way his heart had skipped a beat. "Thanks again," he called weakly.

Jennifer took the belt from him. "Are you actually going to keep this?" she asked, frowning at him.

"Well, I'm not taking it _back_ with me, if that's what you're wondering. But hey, might as well play real cowboy for our last day here, right?"

Further conversation along these lines was cut off by the arrival of Seamus and Maggie, both with deeply disapproving expressions. Marty tried not to show just how tired he was of all these interruptions. "You had him, Mr. Eastwood!" Seamus said, sounding quite disappointed. "You could have just walked away and nobody would have thought the less of you for it."

"_I_ would have thought less of me," Marty replied. "I don't care so much if he calls me a coward, but I draw the line at talking s-uh, bad about Doc," he censored himself, glancing at Maggie and her baby. "You don't know all the stuff he's been through. He's the bravest guy I know, and I won't have anybody like Tannen saying different."

"There's nothing wrong with being proud of your relative," Seamus said, shaking his head. "But you shouldn't have let Buford rile you like that. Now you're playing _his_ game, _his_ way, by _his_ rules."

"Yeah, that's what he thinks too," Marty said, smiling. "I have _no_ intention of being in town Monday morning, Seamus, so you can stop worrying. Though thanks for thinking of me."

Seamus blinked, completely thrown by this. "What, lad?"

"I was _bluffing_," Marty told him, glad to finally have a chance to properly explain this to someone. "I just wanted him off my back. I knew he wasn't gonna leave me alone until I agreed to some time, so. . . . Trust me, I'm not stupid enough to actually want to get into a shootout with him. Besides, we're going on a trip Monday anyway. Leaving early enough to avoid all this."

"Are you?"

"Yeah – taking the train to San Francisco," Jennifer supplied, to Marty's gratitude. "We need to pick up some things there for the blacksmith shop."

"Oh, I see." Seamus frowned. "I still think it's a risk. Buford Tannen's going to be looking for you if you don't show up. He doesn't take well to people trying to hide from him."

"All the way to San Francisco? I'm not sure he hates me that much. Anyway, unless he hijacks the train. . . ." Marty looked down at the gun belt. "I guess I'll keep this on me, though. Just in case."

Maggie shook her head, nose wrinkled. "Too sure of yourself by half, I think. And you seemed to be to be itching for a fight before."

"Hey, who likes to be called 'yellow?'" Marty said, starting to get irritated. Why did the McFlys care so much? It's not like they knew who he really was. "And I'm not gonna say I wouldn't mind just punching that ba – that guy's teeth down his throat, pardon my language."

Maggie sighed and looked at Seamus. "He reminds me a bit of poor Martin."

"Aye," Seamus agreed, head drooping.

Marty and Jennifer blinked, frowning at each other. "You – knew another Martin?" Marty asked.

"Me brother," Seamus explained. Marty had to concentrate to keep his jaw from dropping. "Used to let people provoke him into fights to prove he wasn't a coward. I told him to be more careful, but he told me he knew he'd win any scuffle he got in." Seamus let out a deep, sad sigh. "We had to bury him in Virginia City after he got a Bowie knife shoved through his belly."

_That_ sent a cold chill down Marty's spine. During some of his more risky, death-defying time travel moments, he'd occasionally pictured a anachronistic tombstone bearing his name in the local cemetery. To learn that one _actually existed_, even if it wasn't some time-displaced version of him buried underneath. . . . "I'm sorry for your loss," he forced himself to say. _Really, really sorry._

"Thank you, lad." Seamus put an almost-fatherly hand on his shoulder. "I know you think you've got this all planned out right and proper. But keep your ear to the ground, and _think_, Mr. Eastwood. Me brother never considered the future, God rest his soul – I hope you don't make the same mistakes he did."

With that, he turned and walked away, Maggie following. Marty stared after them. "I think about it all the time," he murmured.

Jennifer patted his back. "I know you're not going to appreciate me agreeing with him, but – Doc wouldn't have been insulted if you'd just kept walking," she said.

"I know," Marty sighed. "But – I've just _had _it with that asshole. And I'm not sure he would have let it go even if I'd tried to walk. I mean–" and here he couldn't stop himself from smiling "– I _did_ just show him I'm a better pie-tin-slinger than he is a marksman."

Jennifer snorted. "All right, I can give you that. And I'm glad you don't actually want to go and fight him if you don't have to." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You really had me worried there for a minute."

"Sorry," Marty said, pulling her a little closer. "I didn't mean to scare you. Or Doc. I just – I wanted him to stop talking shit." _And not try to hurt Doc again,_ he thought, repressing a shiver at the idea. _Not going through that again. Not ever_.

"Yeah, well, we'll see how it goes. Or not, if everything goes according to plan." Jennifer looked over Marty's shoulder. "It's not you that I'm worried about so much about as _Doc_. We need him to get this whole 'get us back to the future' plan off the ground, and – well, for the first time since I've known him, he's not all wild about science!"

"Tell me about it," Marty said, shaking his head. "He's loopy for her – and she for him. Which is the worst part about this. I know it's for the best that they break up and he forget all about her, but part of me. . . ." He groaned and threw up his hands. "She's nice! I wouldn't mind them staying together if it wasn't the wrong time!"

"Me either. And the insane part is that they've known each other for what, a day?"

"Tell me about it. Though I guess we're not ones to talk. I asked you out after knowing you a whole lunch period," Marty reminded her with a nudge.

"Okay, yeah, good point," Jennifer admitted, giggling. "I guess I just never expected it from Doc. He never struck me as a guy who'd be interested in romance."

"Me either," Marty said. "Then again, we're talking about a guy who kept Playboys under his bed."

"That you occasionally snuck home."

"I had to! They were there! Calling to me!"

Jennifer shook her head fondly. "What say we head back to the shop and I try to make you forget about Hef's collection of Bunnies?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," Marty said, leading her away.

* * *

"And that little one in the center there – the one that looks like a starburst? That's Copernicus."

Doc squinted through the eyepiece of the telescope, taking in the magnified face of the moon. He and Clara were sitting outside Clara's cabin, doing a little stargazing to ascertain that her telescope was functioning correctly. Both of them knew it was merely an excuse to spend more time in each other's company – Doc had discovered shortly after she'd left that there wasn't actually anything _wrong_ with the telescope beyond possibly a bit of scuffing from its tumble from the buckboard – but neither was so crass as to actually say that aloud. Besides, Doc was quite enjoying this impromptu lesson on lunar geography. He grunted in assent as he spotted the crater she'd been describing. _**Pretty!**_ Tommy said in his head.

_Isn't it?_ Doc agreed, then snuck a glance at Clara, sitting just beside him. _Mind you, I'm having trouble concentrating. There's a body that's far more beautiful than any in the sky just beside me._

_**Well, you look at Clara, and I'll look at the moon.**_

Clara suddenly laughed, making him briefly wonder if she'd somehow heard Tommy. "Will you listen to me? I feel like I'm teaching school!"

Doc grinned at her. "It's fine. Please, continue the lesson. I never found lunar geography so – fascinating."

_**More like you've never found a **_**woman**_** so fascinating,**_ Albert corrected sarcastically.

Doc ignored him. "You're quite knowledgeable," he continued. "How does a schoolteacher become so interested in astronomy?"

Clara gave him a sweet smile. "When I was eleven, I had diphtheria. I was quarantined for three months. My father put this telescope in my window so I could at least _look_ outside. It wasn't long before I was making my own maps of the stars and moon."

"Really!" Doc was pleasantly reminded of his own childhood experiments after reading Jules Verne, such as his failed attempt to dig to the center of the earth. She seriously seemed tailor-made for him. "Do you remember any of them?"

"Oh, just a little snippet here or there," Clara said, clasping her hands in her lap. "I know I called Copernicus 'Little Sunshine.' Doesn't it look like a little sun?"

Doc took another look. "It does," he agreed. "'Little Sunshine' is honestly a more descriptive name. Nothing against the great scientist, of course."

_**Father, **_Jules cut in abruptly. _**You're stalling.**_

_Jules, please. I'm trying to have a conversation._

_**Yes – the **_**wrong**_** conversation,**_ Jules replied with an irritated hiss. _**Father, we've told you before – you need to tell her you're going! We will be gone **_**Monday**_**!**_

Doc somehow managed to keep his internal grimace off his face. _I know. Yes, I admit, I'm putting it off. But – can you really blame me? She's wonderful. The woman of my dreams._

_**Father, we're not happy about this situation either,**_ Jules said, a little more gently. _**We like her too. But there's nothing for it. Unless you're willing to just disappear on her.**_

_Great Scott, never! I've had too much experience being on the other side of bad breakups._ _All right, here goes. _Doc took a deep breath and turned to his beloved. "Clara–"

Clara, however, was looking up at the night sky with a thoughtful expression. "I've always wanted to see what it was like up there," she murmured. "Ever since those three months." Her eyes darted down to him. "Emmett, do you think it's possible we'll ever be able to travel to the moon like we travel across the country on trains?"

Doc eagerly seized on the new topic, glad for any excuse to continue putting off the painful conversation. "Of course," he said, trying not to smile too much. "Although not for another eighty-four years, and not on trains."

_**Hypocrite! Hypocrite!**_ Albert cried. _**After giving Marty and Jennifer crap about the Frisbie business too!**_

_Like she's going to figure out that I'm talking about a real thing!_ "We'll have spaceships – giant machines with powerful rockets," he continued, ignoring Albert and Tommy's scolding raspberries. "So powerful that–"

"That they break the pull of the Earth's gravity," Clara interrupted, eyes closed in scientific bliss, "and send the projectile into outer space."

Doc stared at her, stunned. What the – how had – how could _Clara_ –

_**Uh, Father, you're sure **_**you're**_** the first one to invent time travel?**_ Verne asked in equal bafflement.

Clara opened her eyes and giggled at his expression. "Emmett, I read that book too!" When his confused frown didn't change, she added, "You're quoting From the Earth to the Moon by Jules Verne."

_**Oh. Right. Duh,**_ Verne said, simultaneously relieved and embarrassed.

Doc's head, however, had no room for either with the surge of shocked love filling it. Would wonders never cease? A fellow science fiction lover as well? "You've read Jules Verne?" he asked, trying and failing to hide his excitement.

Clara grinned at him, that dreamy look back on her face. "I _adore_ Jules Verne."

_**Your favorite author. She loves your favorite author, **_Albert said in disbelief. _**What the hell is **_**with**_** the universe, having her live a century too early?!**_

_Believe me, I'd like to know myself,_ Doc thought, even as he beamed at Clara. "Me too! Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea is my absolute favorite – when I read that as a boy, I wanted to _meet_ Captain Nemo!"

Clara laughed again, shaking her head slightly. "Don't tease, Emmett," she mock-scolded. "You couldn't have read that book as a boy. It was only published about ten years ago."

_**You **_**really**_** need to apologize to Marty for all the times you scolded him about this sort of thing,**_ Tommy commented.

_Right, yes, do that when I get home. . . ._ Doc gave Clara an embarrassed smile. "I meant – it made me _feel_ like a boy," he corrected himself.

Clara accepted that explanation with a little nod. "I can understand. Reading From the Earth to the Moon makes me feel like a little girl myself."

"He's truly an incredible author, isn't he?" Doc leaned forward, looking deep into her eyes. "I never met a woman who liked Jules Verne before," he admitted, voice soft.

Clara returned his soulful gaze. "I – I never ever met a man quite like you before," she whispered.

They remained there, drinking each other in with their eyes, for a moment more. Then, as if in response to some hidden cue, they began to lean in. Doc's lips puckered in anticipation as his eyes started to close.

Abruptly, Clara winced and drew back. Doc blinked. What – had she changed her mind? "Clara?" he asked, putting a hand on her arm. "Is everything all right?"

Clara gave him a tight, weak smile, rubbing her temple. "Fine," she said. "Just – this particularly annoying voice in my head, telling me we've only known each other a day, if that."

Doc couldn't help the grin that came to his face. "I've heard that voice too," he said, ignoring the squawks and annoyed raspberries the tentacles responded with. "Though – I must confess, it has a point. Do you feel we're rushing this? Leaping in before we look?"

Clara looked at his hand, then placed hers on top. "If we are – I don't care a bit," she said, meeting his eyes with the most profound look of adoration he'd ever seen. "I love you, Emmett Wayne. And I want to be with you as long as I live."

All thoughts of telling her he was leaving Monday – in fact, of leaving at all – fled Doc's brain. There was no way on earth he could leave this, leave _her_, behind. "Clara – I feel the same," he whispered.

Then he leaned forward and captured her lips with his.


	12. Smack Some Sense Into Ya

Chapter 12

Sunday, September 6th, 1885

Hill Valley

7:02 A.M.

_Cluck, cluck, cluuuck. . ._

Marty blearily opened his eyes to see Cynthia watching him from her cage above Doc's breakfast maker, head tilted curiously. "Yeah, yeah, I'm up," he informed her, sitting up with a yawn. "You can shut up now."

Cynthia clucked once more, then began preening her feathers. "Lousy chicken," Marty mumbled, before swinging his legs over the edge of his cot. Glancing at the breakfast maker, which was frying Cynthia's latest lay along with some bacon, he added, "Good eggs, though. Hey, Doc?"

"He's not here."

Marty turned to see Jennifer buttoning up her dress before the mirror. "He wasn't here when I woke up," she continued, frowning at him through the glass. "And his bed doesn't look like it was slept in." She finished her buttons and faced Marty properly. "I don't think he came home at all last night."

"Seriously?!" Dark images of Buford tracking down Doc after the party assaulted Marty's mind briefly, but he shoved them away. There was a much more innocent reason for his friend to have stayed out all night, and he was almost positive it was named Clara Clayton. "Jesus. I would have never thought. . . ." He sighed and shook his head. "I sure hope he knows what he's doing."

"I hope the _tentacles_ know what they're doing," was Jennifer's response, going to collect the grub from the breakfast machine. "I thought for sure they'd have gotten him out of there." She stared at the plates of food as if she'd never seen them before. "Though honestly, him doing that in the first place – wow. He's always been Mr. Paranoid about even just _talking_ to too many people!"

"Love makes you crazy," Marty shrugged.

"We're not crazy."

"We're having this conversation 83 years before we're supposed to be born, Jen."

"That doesn't make _us_ crazy – that just means we _attract_ crazy."

Marty snorted. "Good point. But yeah, I know what you mean. I never expected him to act like this if he fell in love. I never expected him to fall in love period. He's always just been – Doc."

"I know," Jennifer agreed. "Love at first sight? With someone from the wrong century?" She shook her head. "Should we wait here for him to come back, or go out and try to find him?"

"Might as well ask around town and see if anybody's seen him," Marty shrugged. "Maybe he just got in late and stayed the night at the saloon so he wouldn't wake us up." Jennifer arched an eyebrow. "It could happen! Won't know until we ask, right? Hand over that bacon already, I'm starving."

They scarfed down their breakfast, then Marty got dressed for the day as Jennifer washed the plates. Just as they were about to head out the door, however, he paused. With Jennifer's puzzled eyes on him, he went back and retrieved his new gun belt from the hook he'd hung it on last night. "What are you doing with that?" she demanded, folding her arms.

"Just seeing how it looks," Marty said, strapping it on. He admired his reflection in the mirror. "Besides, everybody's gonna be expecting me to wear it." He eyed the glass with a scowl. "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me, Tannen?!" He spread his arms wide. "Well, I'm the only one here." In one fluid motion, he quick-drew on himself. "Go ahead! Make my day."

Jennifer rolled her eyes. "I don't know whether to be worried or amused over the fact that you decide to be a 'real' cowboy the day before we leave."

"Trust me, I'd be just as happy with a Nintendo light gun," Marty told her, holstering his weapon. "And not just because the recoil on this is annoying." He gave his girlfriend a kiss. "I promise you, I'm not going to get myself killed facing Buford."

"You mean that?"

"Not all the Clint Eastwood movies in the world could convince me otherwise." He smiled reassuringly at her. "Let's go find the Doc."

The main street was near-silent, as it usually was on Sundays. The few people who were around, however, were friendly and open to questioning. None of them had seen Doc, but all of them had a friendly word for Marty – wishing him good morning, asking if there was anything they could do for him, even offering him a cigar. "Thanks, but I don't smoke," Marty told the man in question, eying the limp roll with mild disgust. "Okay, when the heck did I get so popular?" he added as the man moved on.

"Well, everybody here despises Buford just as much as we do, so. . . ." Jennifer said.

As if to underscore the point, a wagonful of parishioners and Reverend Warwick passed by them, on their way to the church. Warwick spotted the pair and offered them a friendly wave. "Good luck tomorrow, Mr. Eastwood!" he called, holding up his Bible. "We'll be praying for you!"

Marty and Jennifer gawked as the wagon continued on. "Holy shit, was he – was he just _nice_?" Marty finally managed to get out.

"Yeah." Jennifer bit her lip as she watched the group drive away. "I get the feeling you're going to be leaving a lot of disappointed people behind tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, I'm still not getting myself shot the day we're going home," Marty said, shaking his head. "They'll get over it. Hell, maybe it's a good thing – make them _want_ to see us gone."

A new figure appeared at Marty's side, almost out of thin air. "Good morning, Mr. Eastwood," the droning voice of Mr. Cartwell said as he held up a jacket and pants. "Can I interest you in a new suit for tomorrow?"

Marty glared at the local undertaker. "No thanks," he said coldly.

"Oh, but Mr. Eastwood – odds are running two-to-one against you," Mr. Cartwell replied, seemingly unruffled by the teenager's tone. "You might as well be prepared. Besides, I'll need the measurements for your coffin."

"I'm not going–" Marty started, then stopped as Jennifer tugged on his arm. Looking around, he spotted Doc wandering up the thoroughfare. The scientist was sporting the goofiest smile Marty had seen yet, and kept sniffing something – Marty couldn't tell what – in his hand. The teenager somehow repressed a groan. _Oh for the love of. . . ._ Waving a dismissive hand at Cartwell, he stalked over to his friend, Jennifer following close behind.

Doc was attaching something to his jacket as they neared – a little clump of purple flowers in a silver pin, Marty saw now. He sniffed them again, as if he couldn't get enough of their scent. "I'm almost certain I saw those flowers on Clara's dress the other night," Jennifer hissed in Marty's ear.

Marty rolled his eyes so hard he thought they'd fall right out of their sockets. It had been just a little cute last night, but now, with freedom from outhouses and the return of rock music within reach, his friend's loopiness had officially gotten old. "Doc," he said, finally getting the older man's attention, "what are you doing?"

Doc grinned. "I'm just out enjoying the morning air," he replied, looking around the ramshackle town with a dreamy expression. "It's really lovely here in the mornings, don't you think?"

_Oh for – what I wouldn't give to have J. J. or Rick here to start pretending to gag about now!_ "Yeah, well, wait until the horses start shitting all over the place," he snapped, hoping to shut down Doc's overly-happy mood.

Doc gave him a look, but there was a round of soft buzzing from underneath his long duster. Marty smirked – well, at least _someone_ had liked his joke. "Come on, Doc, we need you back at the house," he continued. "We've got to get the DeLorean ready to roll!"

Doc's smile faded. "Right," he said, an oddly reluctant note in his voice. "Lots to do today."

"Did you really spend the entire night at Clara's?" Jennifer asked as they started walking together up the street.

That brought the smile back, along with a blush. "Well – yes. We started stargazing together – did you know she's an amateur astronomer? She's been making maps of the stars and moon ever since she was a child! – and by the time we stopped, it was simply too late for me to consider going home."

"How the hell did you hide the kids if you stayed over her place?" Marty had to ask.

"Easy – I slept on the couch in my clothes," Doc said with a shrug. "It wasn't like Clara could lend me any nightclothes. And sharing a bed was completely out of the question."

"Right. Soooo. . .you _ever_ tell her that we're leaving tomorrow, or were you too busy staring at the moon?" Marty inquired, staring at his friend from under the brim of his hat.

Doc winced as there were a few chiding chitters from under his coat. "Shhh. . .It – it never seemed to be the right time," he admitted lamely. "The boys kept prodding me, but – what with one thing and another–"

"Okay, what happened to the guy who was ultra-paranoid about any of us interacting with anyone outside of our time period?" Jennifer demanded. "The guy who was all 'we can't afford to change the future?' Suddenly it's like you don't care about the future at all!"

"I know, but–"

"No, you obviously _don't _know, because you won't break it off with this chick!" Marty cut him off, not wanting to hear another excuse. "Even with me, Jennifer, and the kids all telling you that you have to! What, do all those rules of yours only apply to us? You can do whatever you want to the space-time continuum and damn the consequences?"

"No!" Doc snapped back, scowling. He took a deep breath, rubbing his temple. "I understand it's probably coming off that way, and I'm sorry, but – she's different. She really is."

"How? How is she different, Doc?"

"She's – I–" Doc threw up his hands. "I can't put it into words. There's a connection there, one I've never had with any woman before. She's the one for me. There's no use in denying it."

"You've known her for two days!" Marty shouted.

Doc's eyes narrowed. "I seem to recall _you_ falling for Jennifer after _one lunch period_ together."

Damn it, he was the only one who was allowed to use that to justify Doc's attraction to Clara. Marty switched angles. "At least Jennifer comes from the same time period as me! And is supposed to be alive! Jules, tell me you've been ramming that fact into his head."

There was an answering chitter from under the duster. "Quiet," Doc scolded. "And yes, he has. But what can we do about it? I certainly can't kill the poor woman!"

"Falling in love with her doesn't help matters either!"

"Marty, she's a wonderful person!"

"I'm not saying she's not! I don't have a problem with _her_ so much as I have a problem with her being in _1885_! If she was from the 1980s, I'd totally tell you to go for it! But she's not, and we're heading back to 1986 _tomorrow–_"

Doc swallowed, going pale. "About that. . . ."

Marty froze, staring at his friend. ". . .Do _not_ tell me you're thinking of staying behind."

Doc didn't meet his eyes. "_How_?!" Marty demanded, gaping. "Have you forgotten that you've got four super-strong, sentient metal tentacles _welded to your back_?!"

"Keep your voice down!" Doc demanded, looking left and right. "And of course I haven't! It's just – well, maybe if Clara and I moved out into the country – isolated from everyone else–"

"That's stupid and you know it's stupid! I mean, how the hell do you think Clara's gonna take finding out about them? She's nice and all, but I bet she'd be screaming and waving a pitchfork with the rest of 'em if she knew the truth!"

"You don't know that!"

"Neither do you! You're acting like an idiot, Doc, and I'm _sick_ of it!"

"It's – I–" Doc's face crumpled. "Marty – I love her," he whispered pleadingly.

"I don't give a shit!" Marty snarled, grabbing a fistful of Doc's shirt and pulling him down so he could look the scientist right in the eyes. "She and you ain't gonna work, Doc! You're coming home with us tomorrow, understand? We're leaving this stupid century and its stupid people behind! _For good_!"

Doc stared at Marty a moment. Then his face darkened. "Fine!" he snapped, pulling free of the teenager's grip and straightening to his full height. "Then let's get started right now!" With that, he marched off toward the shop, the tentacles cheeping and grabbing at his coat as it threatened to billow out and expose them.

"Perfect! We've got lots to pack!" Marty shouted back, following behind with fists clenched.

Jennifer stared after them, then looked around. Fortunately there still weren't a lot of people about, but those who were gaped at the scene, looking just as stunned as she felt. "Uh – good morning," she called weakly, before hitching up her skirts and running after the boys. _Holy shit – I don't think I've _ever_ seen them fight like that! Definitely not in public! Oh crap, I really hope they make up before we go home. . . ._

* * *

Sunday, September 6th, 1885

9:45 P.M.

They didn't. In fact, by the time they'd set up the DeLorean and pitched their camp by the Shonash Valley spur that night, tensions were running even higher between the two men than they had been that morning. Doc and Marty refused to speak to each other unless it was absolutely necessary, shooting each other furious glares all the while. Jennifer tiptoed around them, helping when she was needed but otherwise staying out of their way. It didn't seem wise to get between them at the moment. The tentacles apparently felt much the same – they were oddly silent as they did their tasks, apparently afraid noise would upset the delicate balance between scientist and teenager.

Finally, there was nothing left to do but wait until morning. The group sat down by the campfire to a simple dinner of beans. For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of spoons clanking against cans and the occasional slurp. Then Doc sighed and looked off into the distance. "I should at least tell her goodbye."

Marty's eyes narrowed. "Like hell. You're not going anywhere _near_ her house."

Doc glared back at him. "I can't just leave her in the lurch!"

"Yeah, well, you had your chance, and you blew it. She's just gonna have to wonder what happened to you."

"What gives you the right to dictate my actions? I am not a child, Marty. You're more of a child than I am, in fact."

"Not right now I ain't."

"Guys, please," Jennifer pleaded, the tentacles backing her up with some rather depressed chitters.

"Come on, Jennifer, you've seen how stupid he gets around her!" Marty said, turning on her. "You too, kids! If he goes over to 'say goodbye,' he'll be there all night again and we'll miss the train and we'll be stuck here for at least another week! I've had it with this shitty time period! I want to go home!"

"Marty, I promise, all I will do is make my farewells," Doc said firmly, holding up a hand. "I wouldn't jeopardize our plan so close to final completion." The tentacles nodded, then mimed pulling him backwards. ". . .The kids promise to drag me away if necessary."

Marty shook his head. "Bullshit, Doc. As soon as you get anywhere near her, your brain shuts down. It won't kill her to wonder. And if it does, well, that solves all our problems, doesn't it?"

"Marty!" Jennifer gasped as the tentacles screeched. "What a thing to say!"

"Well, it's the truth, isn't it? If she decides she can't get live without Doc and flings herself into the ravine–"

"There is absolutely _no_ reason to get that cold-blooded toward her!" Doc snapped, his hands clenching into fists. "Or is Buford Tannen rubbing off on you in other ways now?

Confusion mingled with the anger on Marty's face. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Agreeing to a duel with him? After all I've said to you about keeping your temper and avoiding confrontation with people with an itchy trigger finger?" Doc got to his feet and glowered down at the teen. "Do you have some sort of death wish? I thought you were _over_ that ridiculous 'being called chicken' issue! Oh, right, of course you're not, that's the whole reason we had to chase Biff down in his car instead of going straight back to the future from the high school's roof! _You're_ the reason we're in this quote-unquote 'shitty time period!'"

"Fine, I screwed up there, but do you think I'm going to walk all the way back into town to fight Buford Tannen just as the train comes through?" Marty demanded, scrambling to his feet. "I'm not that stupid, Doc! Though you obviously think I am! Why the hell did you hire me as your assistant if you really think I'm a moron? Oh yeah, I was the only one brave enough to step into your damn lab!"

"Might I remind you we _met_ when you idiotically took a dare from Needles and nearly cracked your head open on my driveway?" Doc snarled. "I've seen the evidence that you can be a hot-head right from the start of our relationship! And when you pull stunts like telling Buford you'll get into a shootout with him–" He shook his head, his white hair flying all over the place. "Well, it doesn't really do much for my perception of your intellectual capacity!"

"And what about you, huh?" Marty shot back, face red. "You think you're so perfect, Mr. Let's Screw Up The Space-Time Continuum For Some Chick I Barely Know?! She could be a _relative_ of yours, Doc, ever think of that? Maybe you've got something going on with her like my mom wanted with me!"

The horrified squeals and gagging noises from the tentacles indicated this was not a possibility they had considered, at least. "Given that no biological warning bells went off when I kissed her, like they did for your mother, I think we're safe," Doc growled, tone cold. "Though thank you for bringing that up – _who_ was it that nearly erased himself from existence on his very first trip into the past?"

"Who nearly got himself _murdered_ and made me go back alone?!" Marty shouted, his voice growing strained. "At least I knew all the local girls were off-limits!"

"Stop it, both of you!" Jennifer ran between them, holding out her arms like a referee. "Look, I know neither of you like the other much right now–"

"That's the understatement of the century," Marty muttered.

"– but fighting about it doesn't solve anything! Can't you two talk like civilized human beings?"

Tommy made some sniffling sounds, curling around Doc as the other tentacles nodded their agreement with Jennifer's words. "I would love to, but your boyfriend seems to have gotten in his head that the inventor of time travel doesn't know anything about keeping the timeline straight," Doc said, folding his arms.

"Yeah, well, the very first human time traveler has had to watch the inventor go ga-ga over a woman he's known less than forty-eight hours," Marty retorted, copying the motion.

"And the one with all the knowledge of time travel theory has had to watch the very first human time traveler lose his temper every five minutes!" Doc shot back.

"This has nothing to do with me losing my temper!"

"Then why are you shouting?"

"Because you're a goddamn hypocrite!"

"And you're an immature hothead!"

"And both of you are _impossible_!" Jennifer yelled, putting her head in her hands.

"No, _he's_ the one who's impossible!" Marty said, stabbing his finger at Doc like a sword. "He meets some girl, decides its 'love,' and – you don't even give a crap about me and Jennifer anymore, do you? You met the girl of your dreams, so let's just toss the teenagers in the garbage!"

Doc's jaw dropped open. "What – Marty, that's not true at all!" he said, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Bullshit! Why else would you – would you make me–" For a moment, it seemed Marty was going to abandon his anger in favor of tears, hurt shining bright in his eyes. Then he flung his arms up in the air and shook his head. "Screw it. I can't even look at you right now." He spun around and stormed off.

"Marty, you can't just go walking off into the desert in the middle of the night!" Doc cried as the tentacles chattered above his shoulders. "You don't know what you might run into!"

Marty ignored him. Doc raised his voice. "Martin Seamus McFly, you get back here right now!"

"Stop pretending to be my father!" Marty yelled back.

Verne shot out and tried to grab his shoulder, but Marty violently shrugged him off. "Yeah, you can get bent too! Useless machines!" Before anyone could do anything else, he stalked away into the night.

"Marty! Come back!" Jennifer called, going to the very edge of the firelight and peering out into the darkness. "Marty! Oh, goddamn it. . . ."

Doc let out a deep sigh and dropped back into his seat. "Teenagers," he growled. "Think they know everything. . . ."

_**Maybe, but he has a point, **_Albert spoke up. _**You **_**knew**_** you had to break if off with Clara, and you never did. Even with us constantly reminding you.**_

_**And you **_**have**_** been acting strange ever since you met her, **_Jules agreed. _**She's suddenly become the absolute center of your relative universe.**_

_Well, I'm in love! _Doc argued. _That's what happens when one falls in love._

_**Perhaps, but remember what Marty brought up earlier? What happens when she finds out about us?**_

That brought Doc's thoughts up short. _**You can't keep us a secret forever,**_ Jules continued. _**Particularly if you choose to marry her. She's going to find out.**_

_She – she's an intelligent, forward-thinking woman, she'll– _

_**Father. She's from 1885, **_Albert said point-blank. _**The fact of the matter is, she's probably going to be scared of us, just like Marty said. And even if she does somehow manage to accept us, there's still the rest of the townspeople to consider. Where does that leave us?**_

_**What – what if she asked you to cut us off?**_ Tommy whispered, claw pressing against Doc's side. _**Would you do it?**_

"_No_!" Doc gasped, shocked into verbalization. "You're my _children_! I could _never_ do such a thing to you!"

_**Maybe that's the problem with Marty, **_Verne mused. _**Maybe he feels like you've already cut him off, so to speak, by wanting to stay. I mean, it's not like it's any secret you two consider yourselves family.**_

Doc put his face in his hands. "I'm not so sure of that anymore," he mumbled. "Look, I know you're all right about Clara, but–" He shook his head. "The very idea of leaving her back her tears me up inside. Perhaps I didn't believe in love at first sight before I came here, but – I've been proven wrong in every way possible. No matter how many times I tell myself it's unscientific and that I shouldn't feel this strongly about someone I've only known a couple of days, I – I can't shake the feeling she's the one. I just can't. . . ." He slumped over, staring at the ground. The tentacles chittered and rubbed up against him.

Movement to his left made him lift his head. Jennifer was standing by his side, chewing her lower lip. "For what it's worth, I get it," she said, sitting down next to him. "If it was me and Marty, I don't think I could leave him behind either. Even if it would be hell on the space-time continuum." She swallowed. "So I was thinking. . .why don't we take her with us?"

Doc and the tentacles stared at her. "We _what_?" he said disbelievingly.

"Well, she's not supposed to be alive here anyway!" Jennifer said with an exaggerated shrug. "If we take her back to 1986, she certainly can't affect anything back in 1885!"

_**That's an excellent point,**_ Jules said, sounding intrigued. _**And we'd be able to personally monitor any effects she had on the timeline of 1986 onward. Since the future is always being rewritten, it would drastically cut down on the incidence of paradoxes! **_

_**Not to mention it would make you happy, Father,**_ Verne added. _**You'd be able to go on **_**real**_** dates and get married under your own name and everything!**_

_**And someone other than us could clean the house!**_ Tommy squeaked, clacking his claw.

For a moment, Doc pictured the scene – him and Clara set up in his garage home, cooking meals, sharing housework, reading Jules Verne together. . . . It was a wonderful fantasy, and his heart ached for it. But. . . "No," he said, shaking his head. "I warned you and Marty about not manipulating the space-time continuum for your own benefit. Therefore, I must do no less. I'll give Marty that I've been displaying some openly-hypocritical tendencies ever since meeting Clara. I need to start following my own rules again." He let out a deep sigh. "We will fetch Marty back, and then we will proceed as planned to return to 1986. And then, no matter what anyone says, unless there is a true emergency resulting from our time back here, I am _destroying_ that wretched machine." He looked away, not wanting Jennifer to see the tears welling up in his eyes. "Traveling through time has become much too painful."

There was silence for about a minute. Then, with no warning, Jennifer smacked him hard on the arm. "_Ow_!" Doc yelped, clutching the injured area. "What was that for?!"

"How the hell did you actually get a Ph.D.?!" Jennifer demanded, eyes narrowed. "I mean – Jesus, Doc, you can be _stupid_ sometimes!" She smacked him again. "How does someone so _thick_ invent a time machine?!"

"Would you mind _explaining_ your hypothesis instead of resorting to physical violence?" Doc asked, scooting out of hitting range as Jules chittered at her in annoyance.

"Clara is not Grey's Sports Almanac, Doc! You're not planning on using her to change the future, are you? She's not your key to becoming insanely rich or anything. You just love her and want to spend the rest of your life with her! That's a lot different than what Tannen pulled – or what I wanted to do," she added, some of the fire going out of her. "I still can't believe I was going to do something so – Biff." She held up her hands and shook her head. "Point is, though, this is not like that. You're not yanking some information out of time so you can get a mansion and a cool car, you're taking someone who shouldn't even be here with you so you don't have to lose the love of your life!"

"It's still manipulating the timeline purely for my own personal benefit!" Doc replied, waving his arms. "How can I let that sort of behavior slide in good conscience?"

Jennifer folded her arms and looked him dead in the eye. "Because you already did once. With Marty."

"What – warning him off the car accident? All right, yes, but that was because he warned me off my own future death. I had to pay him back some–"

"No, before that!"

"Before? What are you talking about?"

"Come on – Marty's told you about what his parents were like before he time-traveled, right? Did you ever tell him he had to go back and fix that?"

"Why on earth would I–"

Doc's voice ground to a stop. Wait a minute – she was right. Just because he remembered the new timeline as the "valid" one didn't mean it _was_ valid. The true timeline was the one that had occurred without the disruption of time travel – the one Marty still remembered and often compared unfavorably to his current circumstances. Granted, the changes Marty had made were completely accidental, and benefitted a lot more people than just him. . .but it was still a major disruption that any right-thinking time-machine-inventing scientist probably would have insisted their assistant fix. Who knew the sort of ripples that George and Lorraine McFly having a better life (and Biff Tannen arguably a worse one, though he seemed content enough in his current role) had wrought on the fabric of the space-time continuum?

_**Yeah, but – does it really count?**_ Verne asked, tilting his claw first one way, then the other. _**You said it yourself – Marty did all that by accident. If he'd known that he was disrupting his parents' first meeting, he never would have shoved George out of the way. And nothing seems to have gone bonkers yet in the space-time continuum.**_

_**That's not really the point, Verne, **_Jules countered. _**If we were truly committed to keeping the timeline as close to the original as possible, we would have figured out a way to prevent the worst of his interference without causing a paradox. Put things as close as possible to how they went before. That was the whole principle behind Father wanting to keep Marty in his mansion for the week he was stuck in 1955 – and behind him refusing to read the letter Marty wrote him shortly before his return to the 80s.**_

_**. . .Which nearly got him killed,**_ Albert suddenly put in._** That letter is the only reason Father – and ergo, us – are around! If he hadn't changed his mind and decided to hell with the space-time continuum, he'd be dead and we'd have never existed!**_

_**No! I don't want to be erased from existence!**_ Tommy cried, waving himself around. _**The original timeline can go blow itself!**_

_Tommy!_ Doc thought, torn between shock and laughter. More seriously, he added, _That's a point, though. Only by interfering with the natural order of events in the space-time continuum did I continue to exist as a living man. And it never even occurred to me to try and correct the other damage Marty inflicted on the timeline. I wonder why. Because Marty was my friend? Or because my own memories suggested to me that the new timeline was the 'correct' one? And hell, if we're listing times I've been hypocritical, you've got a fair amount of future technology within yourselves, and there's whole business of getting my eyes fixed in the future. . . . _He groaned and put his hands back in his hands. "Damn it. I'm a scientist! I should know how to think about complications like these!"

"But you're a person too," Jennifer said, reaching toward him. Doc started to move away, but she just rested his hand on his shoulder. "I'm just saying – you've bent the rules plenty of times before, for all of us. Everybody's happiness has always meant more to you than keeping the timeline completely straight. So what's wrong with doing it again with Clara? Especially when all the evidence points to it solving more problems than it creates?"

The tentacles all turned to look at Doc significantly. _**Well?**_

Doc remained as he was for a moment, pondering all of this. Then he lifted his head, an embarrassed blush suffusing his cheeks but a smile curling his lips. "I must concede the point," he said with a nod.

"About taking Clara to the future, or about you being really stupid sometimes?" Jennifer couldn't help asking.

"Both. I can't believe I didn't see it like that before. Blame being twitterpated, I suppose." Doc rubbed the back of his head. "Although we're not out of the woods yet, not really. We have to take into account the fact that she – well, one look at the tentacles and it's not likely she won't believe me," he corrected himself, glancing back at them. "Rather, we need to consider the possibility that she won't _want_ to come to the future, no matter what her feelings for me might be."

_**We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, **_Jules said. _**It's not like we can do anything about here presence here without a properly working time machine.**_

"Right, right. Let's give her the opportunity to say yes or no, and we'll work from there." He got to his feet with a little help from Albert and Tommy. "First things first however – we need to track down Marty before he gets eaten by a coyote. I think apologies are owed all around."

"Damn straight," Jennifer said, folding her arms. "You're not the only one who needs some sense smacked into him. Honestly, where would you two be without me?"

_**The honest answer of "not back here because you wouldn't have had a chance to try buying that almanac" would be too mean, right?**_ Albert asked with a chitter.

_Far too mean, yes._ "At this point in time, who knows," Doc said instead, shaking his head. "All right, kids, let's go find Marty."

* * *

_God damn it, he is such an asshole! Why the hell did Needles and his buds have to fling me into that garbage can three years ago? I could be home having a nice, normal life right about now! With running water and recorded music and freaking electricity! How the hell can Doc want to give all that up? He's an idiot, that's how. Goddamn Clara!_

Marty stormed across the darkened desert, fuming. _He's the one always getting on my ass about not interacting too much with the locals – then he goes and saves some random girl we've never seen before and falls in love with her! _he thought with a scowl toward the sky. _Why didn't he go and try to find somebody else to help? Then history would still be on course and we'd be going home tomorrow with no problems!_

But even as he thought that, guilt surged up from his stomach, trying to overwhelm his anger. It wasn't Clara's fault they were in this mess. She hadn't done anything worse than have a nasty brush with death and fall in love with the guy who'd saved her. She had no idea her boyfriend was from the future. And she and Doc really did seem to make each other happy. She was even nice to be around when Marty wasn't cursing Doc for being the biggest hypocrite on the planet. _All of this would have been a lot easier if she'd turned out to be like – I dunno, Strickland's long-lost sister or something. Shit shit shit. . .and now Jennifer's going to be all mad at me too, even though she should be on _my_ side – _

Something rustled a few feet away from him. Marty froze. _What was that?_ His eyes scanned the horizon, but all they found was desert and a few lonely bits of scrub, painted silvery-grey in the moonlight. Suddenly, it occurred to him that rushing off into the desert in the middle of the night might not have been the smartest thing to do. Especially in bear country. _Uh. . .maybe I should be getting back. . . ._ he thought, taking a few cautious steps backward.

The rustling repeated itself, and a nearby bush shook. Marty stopped dead, staring at it. _Oh shit oh shit don't be a coyote or a wolf or a mountain lion or a bear or anything else capable of ripping my guts out oh _shit_ – _

There was a final rustle, a violent rattling of woody branches – and out came a jackrabbit, hopping along its merry way. Marty let out a long sigh of relief, rolling his eyes. "Stupid bunny," he whispered. "Well, at least it wasn't–"

A pitch-black tentacle shot out of the shadows and snatched the rabbit.

Marty screamed and stumbled backwards so fast he fell over. As he watched in shock, more tentacles appeared, wrapping tightly around the jackrabbit's struggling form. They seemed to come from the night sky itself, trickling down in gooey tendrils of inky black. _What the – what the hell? What – why – huh?!_

From the darkness of a nearby tree emerged something that looked disturbingly like a human hand coated in a thick layer of oil. It was followed by another, and then a head – an almost formless mass of black, with two white patches to symbolize eyes and a tiny strip of red for a mouth. The tentacles squirmed around it, stretching out of the shoulders of the strange creature to probe the air and ground. Marty's breath caught in his throat. _Oh God. _Don't move,_ McFly._

The creature drew the shrieking jackrabbit toward itself. There was a twist, a snap, and then the unfortunate animal stopped moving. The creature looked down at the still form – then _grinned_, the strip of red opening up into a gaping maw full of fang-like teeth. A long, sinuous tongue flicked out, licking whatever passed for lips. _Christ, _Marty thought, simultaneously repelled and mesmerized. _Surprised that thing can't hear my heart trying to get out of my chest. . . ._

As if tempting fate, the creature's head suddenly turned to look straight at the teenager. Marty sucked in his breath, trying not to move a single muscle. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit. . . ._

The creature studied him for a moment. Then, to his surprise, it closed its mouth, shaping the red strip into something approximating a friendly smile. Absorbing the rabbit into its body, it began backing away. Marty somehow managed a weak smile back. _Yeah, fine,_ he thought, crabwalking over the ground. _You go your way, and I'll go mine, and then I'm going to run back to our camp and not leave the fire the rest of the night no matter how stupid Doc's – _

The creature abruptly stopped, blank "eyes" focused on a point about a foot above his head. Puzzled, Marty started to look up –

Only to have the creature launch itself at him, slamming him to the ground. Marty screamed as the hands pinned him to the desert. "SHIT!"

His cry was echoed by a metallic screech. Jerking his head to the side, he could now see Jules hovering above him, looking as worried as a metal claw with no face could. The tentacle whacked the creature across the face, hissing. The creature winced, then let out a furious roar, jaw stretching impossibly wide as it tried to bite off the claw. Jules ducked away with a frighted squeak, but then his three brothers appeared, all snapping their pincers menacingly at the newcomer. Footsteps followed them, and Marty saw Doc racing to get closer to the action. "No! Stay back!" he yelled, not wanting his friend to get his face bitten off for his trouble.

Fortunately, the creature seemed much more interested in the tentacles than the human attached to them. With a snarl, more black tendrils whipped out of its body, snapping toward the tentacles and attempting to seize them. One managed to get a hold on Tommy, dragging him to the ground while he thrashed. The other tentacles promptly tried to help their brother, only to be caught up in the black themselves. The goo spread quickly, coating them and forcing them into near-immobility. "Kids!" Marty yelled, horrified.

The creature glanced at him in puzzlement – or, at least, that's what the downward quirk of the mouth suggested to Marty. Maybe it was just pissed at him for not shutting up. Then Albert managed to rip free of its clutches, claw drawn back and blade tip just extended in his version of a snarl. The creature growled back and formed one hand into something like a club, swatting the unfortunate tentacle to the side. Tommy, having squirmed the tip of his claw free of his own prison, let out a loud shriek of horror at seeing his brother abused.

The goo abruptly rippled, pulling back from the tentacles as if it had been pained by the sound. Seeing their opportunity, the tentacles began vocalizing as loud as they could. Marty winced at the four-part cacophony, but couldn't deny its effectiveness – the creature backed off him as the noise persisted, whimpering in pain. As soon as he was free, he rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet, rushing back toward his friend. "Doc!"

"Get to the camp, Marty!" Doc yelled as the tentacles, emboldened by their success, wrapped the creature in their clutches. The diminished figure tried to fight back, but another loud schreek from Tommy kept it relatively immobile. "I'll deal with this!"

Although going back to the safety of the firelight was tempting, there was no way Marty was going to leave his best friend alone to face this. "Just keep it at arm's length, Doc! This bastard's got some teeth on it!"

"Trust me, I noticed!" Doc said as the tentacles hoisted the creature off the ground.

Arms squeezing him around his middle made Marty nearly leap out of his skin. "Are you all right?" Jennifer demanded, pressing her face against his neck.

"Yeah," Marty said, clamping a hand over his heart. "But don't _do_ that!"

"Sorry, sorry, it's just – what _is_ that thing?" Jennifer whispered as the creature made a last-ditch effort at freeing itself, attempting a gnaw on Verne's arm before being repelled with a shriek from Albert.

"Damned if I know, and I'm not sure I _want_ to know," Marty said, pulling her tighter against him. "Cripes, I hope we don't have these back in 1986 – Doc, I say we find out just how far you can throw shit!" he added to his friend.

The creature waved a frantic hand, shaking its head as best it could in the tentacles unforgiving grip. Doc glared at it, hands clenched into fists at its sides. "Now you choose to try and communicate?" he yelled. "Why should I listen to what you want? What _are_ you, anyway?"

The creature swallowed, looking as terrified as its almost-blank face would allow. Then, suddenly, said face started peeling away, tendrils pulling back and being absorbed into the main body. The three watched as, slowly, a human head emerged from the black.

And then the last bit of goo withdrew, and the trio found themselves looking into the face –

Of Clara Clayton.


End file.
